So, it's going to happen. Of course I'm excited and nervous, but I'm not psyching myself out of this. I won't dwell on the parting this evening that buried my head in my hands for the duration of the trip back, but on "Yes, I would!" I don't care that it's likely to rain tomorrow. What's to care about at this point but showing up on time? And, believe me, I'll beat her there by at least twenty minutes--time enough to change and primp in the coffe shop bathroom. It's happening!
I took out Hinckley and Stacey tonight to show my appreciation and get one last pep talk. Stacey set up my outfit, which I really was stuck on, though it was Hinckley who asked what I'd be wearing. Stacey said I had to wear what she called my "ass pants," a particular pair of jeans, and my new red shirt that was a hit last Thursday at work. (I just this moment had to jump to my closet to confirm that it was here and not in my work locker. Phew!) She also suggested I wear a brown t-shirt underneath. (I'll try to refrain from telling Julie Stacey dressed me.) So I'm feeling great about that.
I walked Hinckley home after dinner--Stacey was going to watch the debate with Chris--and he likened himself to a coach as he pumped me up. But no empty platitudes here; everything he said was heart-felt, relevant, and spot-on. Before dinner I had been dreading the end of the evening, when I would be home alone, brooding, trying not to scheme; but I'm buoyant, almost ready to go--not quite ready to scream, "Bring it on!" but maybe a good night's sleep will get me the rest of the way.
Sunday
Soundtrack to a Train Wreck (9/28/08 Sunday)*
Well, it happened.
The day began an hour or so before daylight, when I awoke gently chiding myself for negative thoughts. I no longer had to beat down those thoughts; I had tamed them and could amuse myself with their occasional presence, like pets. But there seemed nothing to do about the giddiness of anticipation. Breakfast disappeared from my stomach the moment it disappeared from my bowl. A banana and yogurt did the same. As I ate I listened to music:
Beating of Hearts
Wonderland
Love on a Farmboy's Wages
Great Fire
When You're Near Me I Have Difficulty
Mayor of Simpleton
I Don't Mind
Everybody's Happy Nowadays
Why Can't I Touch It?
I went to the grocery store. I ate. I went to Agee's for a part, bought some bike shoes, too. Ate. Showered. Still that hole in my gut. Listened to more music:
The Thrill of It All
All I Want Is You
Out of the Blue
A Really Good Time
No Matter What
Burning with Optimism's Flames
Sgt. Rock (Is Going to Help Me)
Packed the change of clothes and left, later than I had wanted to, a mile up the road before realizing I'd forgotten the belt. Did not turn around.
Adrenaline pushed me hard for a while, and my mind's monologue distracted me from the effort. After I turned onto MacArthur I released the handlebars and tried to relax my arms and shoulders. But as I rolled onto the sidewalk in front of the shop I saw Julie's car in the lot. I tried to shrug it off. The physical action was a lie to the emotional. She was at the counter when I walked in, dressed very casually, in jeans and blue-gray t-shirt with off-white collar. A pang of alarm twisted my gut over the inference to her attitude toward this meeting. Still, I had a line: As I came aside her I leaned over close and said, low, "Pretend you didn't see me." I heard a chuckle as I continued to the restroom.
I muttered as I dressed, my humor ebbing as I staunched the ride's sweat with paper towels. Because I was hot I forewent the t-shirt, but even with the shirt I felt ridiculously overdressed. Who was there to impress at this point, but with the pathetic transparency of my effort to impress? When I emerged Julie was still at the counter. I said, "What are you getting?"
"Oh, I've paid for it already." I was irked by her inference, but didn't try to clear up the misunderstanding. She was handed two cups and walked away. I ordered an iced spiced chai and walked to the table she'd chosen, at the end of the counter. She sat facing me, back to the wall. I hung my satchel full of sweaty bike clothes on the back of the facing chair and said, "Are you early or am I late?"
"I think I got here a few minutes early."
"That wasn't part of the plan," I said with mock (I hope) ruefulness. She asked how long it had taken me, how far I'd come. I estimated nine miles and forty-five minutes. It was already the kind of conversation I didn't want. I paid for my chai and overtipped. I never put money in a tip jar; thirty percent makes up for a least a couple omissions.
Julie had gotten the same drink (the other cup was ice water), and that sustained the chitchat for a couple seconds. The first few minutes were spent dancing against the silence. Julie contributed more than I did, as I was girding for my proclamation. I stroked the condensation on my clear plastic cup with pincers of the thumb and middle finger of my left hand.
"Julie," I said, watching those fingers reach the table. I raised my gaze to her eyes. "At the risk of embarrassing at least one of us, I have to tell you that, the reason I asked you out is because you fascinate me, and I want to get to know you better, in a way that I can't at work."
Julie blushed deeply, but for a moment--an endless, ominous moment--the expectant smile did not waver, the eyes did not blink, the head did not turn. I was seeing the shadow of the hammer over my head. Finally, she turned to her left and dipped her head. Her smile widened, her eyes nearly disappearing behind the still-red cheeks. I grasped for uplift from that image but saw in it the sand under the icing.
"Gosh, Dion,I don't know what to say." But then she looked at me. Her tongue darted to moisten her lips. She said, "Dion, you're a really great guy"--Oh, please! Not the "great guy" line!--"but I really don't think this can go any farther than this." She may have added "I'm sorry," but she needn't have, given the look of pity on her face. I don't know what she may have said because I was reeling. I never took my eyes from hers, but the thudding of my heart was shaking my vision.
I said, "Okay." I pursed my lips, shrugged shoulders and eyebrows, and looked away. Water welled on the far side of my left eye. What was that? I didn't feel like crying, though in a fleeting welter of self-pity I gazed into and across a black chasm of loneliness stretching to the end of my days. But I wasn't going to jump in just yet. I looked out the plate-glass window at nothing.
Julie said, "I hate having to say that."
"It's how you feel," I said, without conviction or eye contact, staring now at the ziploc bags of loose tea hanging from the slat stand beside us.
Quietly, as if to herself, or to the stand in line with her vision, with a flattered wonder she said, "I don't know what you could find so fascinating about me."
If I'd ever actually tried to pinpoint that for my own edification, I couldn't have expressed it now to the least degree. Instead, my mind did what my face didn't dare, and smirked--a cruel, self-pitying smirk--thinking, "Would it do me any good to tell you?" I looked at her.
She said, "It's just that I believe that there are two ways of getting to know someone: by working with them or by living with them. That doesn't mean we can't still hang out."
"But I'm not me at work," I protested, "especially around you." I'd looked away, but I heard a sound of amusement. I threw a hand past my face to dismiss my attitude. This was not a healthy direction. I looked briefly her way before resting on my cup. "Well," I said to her, "now that I've made everything awkward..." and laughed with an insincere self-deprecation.
But those five minutes stretched to nearly two hours, despite my taking every opportunity to break down this belief of hers. The logic just didn't work. I was becoming more determined to bring down her walls than to plead my case. Yet Julie seemed just as determined to keep the battlements intact, and she seemed much better drilled in her defensive maneuvers than I in my attack. Her prowess at deflection bordered on sleight of hand. I can't even give an example, it was so subtle. But I never let small talk get too good a hold on the proceedings. She came back from the restroom and told me there was a private room for reserve back there.
"Hm," I said. "About this theory of yours--not that I'm challenging you--"
"Yes, you are."
"Yes, I am," I admitted immediately, quietly thrilled that she would call me out on that. But I continued. This was becoming something of a chase through a maze: I'd lose her if her voice didn't betray her bearing. I had to keep her talking on this point; she'd have to lead me to her self eventually. "But how can you really get to know someone at work? It's such a contrived setting."
"True, but you see how people work together, their interaction with one another."
"But that's such a small part of anyone. No one is the same at work as they are outside it. Seems like a lot of extrapolating going on."
"Well, here's an example: Marion."
"What about her?"
"She was a control freak. Couldn't you tell?"
"Of course. From day one."
"You learned that from working with her."
"Sure, but that's easy. How does one get to know you at work?"
(Activate deflector.)
Later, I tried, "You strike me as very guarded."
She stared an instant before saying, "Guarded? I am guarded."
"How do I get past that? Do you ever let it down?"
"I don't know. There are things about me even my mother doesn't know."
Here I slipped, not asking for an example--not that she'd have given me one, but I might just have gotten a glimpse into the courtyard of the fortress. Instead, I said, "Well, there's plenty my parents don't know about me, too."
"I guess that's just who I am."
"Well, I accept that there are some things about ourselves that we have to accept, but is that really something you have to accept about yourself? Do you like being that way?"
"Well, not always." She turned her head and was quiet. I backed off, a little ashamed at having pushed in, then twisted the dagger.
During another challenge she said, regarding her previously stated affections toward me, "If I change my mind, I'll let you be the first to know."
"You know," I said, "I don't believe you would tell anyone, even me, if you changed your mind." I didn't smile. She didn't reply.
The time to part came. When Julie reached behind her for the purse slung over her chair and said, "Well," I said, "Oh, no," and she laughed. It was an awkward parting. I walked her to her car. She said, "See you bright and early Monday morning," and I inwardly lamented the speed at which she'd reverted to polite detachment. She'd started to slip into the car when she stopped and straightened. "Oh," she said, "I had a really good time." "I did, too," I replied,"except for a few details." It was meant as a playful dig to show I was okay with the "rejection," but I think it came off sounding like the first cork popped at my pity party. An exchange of good-byes and a "Have a safe ride home" from Julie and I went back to the restroom.
Initially, the ride home was marked with a pronounced absence of that gut-twisting stew of regret and self-doubt. I felt I'd done all I could, laid it all out on the table. But then I began seeing the missed opportunities to chip at her walls with a bigger chisel and heavier hammer. Then I reallized that this had very likely been my only shot at this, the only intense one-on-one that I might ever have with Julie. I didn't kid myself that she would even want to do this again, given the grilling and the likelihood of more of the same. I didn't miss her kneading her shoulder.
But the real sand in my craw was the implication of her statement about getting to know someone: What was it about me at work that she used to rule me out of her affections? It's a question I could never ask, not the least because I didn't want to know the answer. There is no pleading a case without loss of dignity, especially a case that can't be won, and if I can't retain respect I'll never get a second day in court.
So I was very angry when I got home. The rest of the weekend (it's now Monday morning) has seen a fluctuation of moods from that anger to acceptance to resolve. I'm not angry with Julie--I find myself incapable of that--in fact, maybe I'm no longer angry at all. I respect and accept Julie's feelings as her own and valid--to a point. My resolve is to continue challenging her theory, but in much subtler ways. You see, my fascination with Julie grew at least ten-fold Saturday afternoon, and I'm more determined than ever to get to know her, to swim that moat and smote those thick walls of hers to dust. Perhaps this is not fair to my heart, this new tortuous pursuit taken up on the heels of the last. Perhaps it's less my heart than my head that wants this. Most likely I don't care which is the case. Delusion or not, I want to believe it's my heart leading the way, and maybe by believing that I can learn to believe in my heart's ability to guide me safely to success. It's what I want.
*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
Sorry about how it went. That sucks. It is really hard to reject someone, and people often give mixed signals because they like being noticed or liked.
I agree with you about wanting to trust your heart, that it will lead you to safety, or to good choices at least on some levels even if not on manifest levels. I believe we are drawn to others who are good fits for us in some ways, there is some good and healthy reason for why this person appeals to us.
The day began an hour or so before daylight, when I awoke gently chiding myself for negative thoughts. I no longer had to beat down those thoughts; I had tamed them and could amuse myself with their occasional presence, like pets. But there seemed nothing to do about the giddiness of anticipation. Breakfast disappeared from my stomach the moment it disappeared from my bowl. A banana and yogurt did the same. As I ate I listened to music:
Beating of Hearts
Wonderland
Love on a Farmboy's Wages
Great Fire
When You're Near Me I Have Difficulty
Mayor of Simpleton
I Don't Mind
Everybody's Happy Nowadays
Why Can't I Touch It?
I went to the grocery store. I ate. I went to Agee's for a part, bought some bike shoes, too. Ate. Showered. Still that hole in my gut. Listened to more music:
The Thrill of It All
All I Want Is You
Out of the Blue
A Really Good Time
No Matter What
Burning with Optimism's Flames
Sgt. Rock (Is Going to Help Me)
Packed the change of clothes and left, later than I had wanted to, a mile up the road before realizing I'd forgotten the belt. Did not turn around.
Adrenaline pushed me hard for a while, and my mind's monologue distracted me from the effort. After I turned onto MacArthur I released the handlebars and tried to relax my arms and shoulders. But as I rolled onto the sidewalk in front of the shop I saw Julie's car in the lot. I tried to shrug it off. The physical action was a lie to the emotional. She was at the counter when I walked in, dressed very casually, in jeans and blue-gray t-shirt with off-white collar. A pang of alarm twisted my gut over the inference to her attitude toward this meeting. Still, I had a line: As I came aside her I leaned over close and said, low, "Pretend you didn't see me." I heard a chuckle as I continued to the restroom.
I muttered as I dressed, my humor ebbing as I staunched the ride's sweat with paper towels. Because I was hot I forewent the t-shirt, but even with the shirt I felt ridiculously overdressed. Who was there to impress at this point, but with the pathetic transparency of my effort to impress? When I emerged Julie was still at the counter. I said, "What are you getting?"
"Oh, I've paid for it already." I was irked by her inference, but didn't try to clear up the misunderstanding. She was handed two cups and walked away. I ordered an iced spiced chai and walked to the table she'd chosen, at the end of the counter. She sat facing me, back to the wall. I hung my satchel full of sweaty bike clothes on the back of the facing chair and said, "Are you early or am I late?"
"I think I got here a few minutes early."
"That wasn't part of the plan," I said with mock (I hope) ruefulness. She asked how long it had taken me, how far I'd come. I estimated nine miles and forty-five minutes. It was already the kind of conversation I didn't want. I paid for my chai and overtipped. I never put money in a tip jar; thirty percent makes up for a least a couple omissions.
Julie had gotten the same drink (the other cup was ice water), and that sustained the chitchat for a couple seconds. The first few minutes were spent dancing against the silence. Julie contributed more than I did, as I was girding for my proclamation. I stroked the condensation on my clear plastic cup with pincers of the thumb and middle finger of my left hand.
"Julie," I said, watching those fingers reach the table. I raised my gaze to her eyes. "At the risk of embarrassing at least one of us, I have to tell you that, the reason I asked you out is because you fascinate me, and I want to get to know you better, in a way that I can't at work."
Julie blushed deeply, but for a moment--an endless, ominous moment--the expectant smile did not waver, the eyes did not blink, the head did not turn. I was seeing the shadow of the hammer over my head. Finally, she turned to her left and dipped her head. Her smile widened, her eyes nearly disappearing behind the still-red cheeks. I grasped for uplift from that image but saw in it the sand under the icing.
"Gosh, Dion,I don't know what to say." But then she looked at me. Her tongue darted to moisten her lips. She said, "Dion, you're a really great guy"--Oh, please! Not the "great guy" line!--"but I really don't think this can go any farther than this." She may have added "I'm sorry," but she needn't have, given the look of pity on her face. I don't know what she may have said because I was reeling. I never took my eyes from hers, but the thudding of my heart was shaking my vision.
I said, "Okay." I pursed my lips, shrugged shoulders and eyebrows, and looked away. Water welled on the far side of my left eye. What was that? I didn't feel like crying, though in a fleeting welter of self-pity I gazed into and across a black chasm of loneliness stretching to the end of my days. But I wasn't going to jump in just yet. I looked out the plate-glass window at nothing.
Julie said, "I hate having to say that."
"It's how you feel," I said, without conviction or eye contact, staring now at the ziploc bags of loose tea hanging from the slat stand beside us.
Quietly, as if to herself, or to the stand in line with her vision, with a flattered wonder she said, "I don't know what you could find so fascinating about me."
If I'd ever actually tried to pinpoint that for my own edification, I couldn't have expressed it now to the least degree. Instead, my mind did what my face didn't dare, and smirked--a cruel, self-pitying smirk--thinking, "Would it do me any good to tell you?" I looked at her.
She said, "It's just that I believe that there are two ways of getting to know someone: by working with them or by living with them. That doesn't mean we can't still hang out."
"But I'm not me at work," I protested, "especially around you." I'd looked away, but I heard a sound of amusement. I threw a hand past my face to dismiss my attitude. This was not a healthy direction. I looked briefly her way before resting on my cup. "Well," I said to her, "now that I've made everything awkward..." and laughed with an insincere self-deprecation.
But those five minutes stretched to nearly two hours, despite my taking every opportunity to break down this belief of hers. The logic just didn't work. I was becoming more determined to bring down her walls than to plead my case. Yet Julie seemed just as determined to keep the battlements intact, and she seemed much better drilled in her defensive maneuvers than I in my attack. Her prowess at deflection bordered on sleight of hand. I can't even give an example, it was so subtle. But I never let small talk get too good a hold on the proceedings. She came back from the restroom and told me there was a private room for reserve back there.
"Hm," I said. "About this theory of yours--not that I'm challenging you--"
"Yes, you are."
"Yes, I am," I admitted immediately, quietly thrilled that she would call me out on that. But I continued. This was becoming something of a chase through a maze: I'd lose her if her voice didn't betray her bearing. I had to keep her talking on this point; she'd have to lead me to her self eventually. "But how can you really get to know someone at work? It's such a contrived setting."
"True, but you see how people work together, their interaction with one another."
"But that's such a small part of anyone. No one is the same at work as they are outside it. Seems like a lot of extrapolating going on."
"Well, here's an example: Marion."
"What about her?"
"She was a control freak. Couldn't you tell?"
"Of course. From day one."
"You learned that from working with her."
"Sure, but that's easy. How does one get to know you at work?"
(Activate deflector.)
Later, I tried, "You strike me as very guarded."
She stared an instant before saying, "Guarded? I am guarded."
"How do I get past that? Do you ever let it down?"
"I don't know. There are things about me even my mother doesn't know."
Here I slipped, not asking for an example--not that she'd have given me one, but I might just have gotten a glimpse into the courtyard of the fortress. Instead, I said, "Well, there's plenty my parents don't know about me, too."
"I guess that's just who I am."
"Well, I accept that there are some things about ourselves that we have to accept, but is that really something you have to accept about yourself? Do you like being that way?"
"Well, not always." She turned her head and was quiet. I backed off, a little ashamed at having pushed in, then twisted the dagger.
During another challenge she said, regarding her previously stated affections toward me, "If I change my mind, I'll let you be the first to know."
"You know," I said, "I don't believe you would tell anyone, even me, if you changed your mind." I didn't smile. She didn't reply.
The time to part came. When Julie reached behind her for the purse slung over her chair and said, "Well," I said, "Oh, no," and she laughed. It was an awkward parting. I walked her to her car. She said, "See you bright and early Monday morning," and I inwardly lamented the speed at which she'd reverted to polite detachment. She'd started to slip into the car when she stopped and straightened. "Oh," she said, "I had a really good time." "I did, too," I replied,"except for a few details." It was meant as a playful dig to show I was okay with the "rejection," but I think it came off sounding like the first cork popped at my pity party. An exchange of good-byes and a "Have a safe ride home" from Julie and I went back to the restroom.
Initially, the ride home was marked with a pronounced absence of that gut-twisting stew of regret and self-doubt. I felt I'd done all I could, laid it all out on the table. But then I began seeing the missed opportunities to chip at her walls with a bigger chisel and heavier hammer. Then I reallized that this had very likely been my only shot at this, the only intense one-on-one that I might ever have with Julie. I didn't kid myself that she would even want to do this again, given the grilling and the likelihood of more of the same. I didn't miss her kneading her shoulder.
But the real sand in my craw was the implication of her statement about getting to know someone: What was it about me at work that she used to rule me out of her affections? It's a question I could never ask, not the least because I didn't want to know the answer. There is no pleading a case without loss of dignity, especially a case that can't be won, and if I can't retain respect I'll never get a second day in court.
So I was very angry when I got home. The rest of the weekend (it's now Monday morning) has seen a fluctuation of moods from that anger to acceptance to resolve. I'm not angry with Julie--I find myself incapable of that--in fact, maybe I'm no longer angry at all. I respect and accept Julie's feelings as her own and valid--to a point. My resolve is to continue challenging her theory, but in much subtler ways. You see, my fascination with Julie grew at least ten-fold Saturday afternoon, and I'm more determined than ever to get to know her, to swim that moat and smote those thick walls of hers to dust. Perhaps this is not fair to my heart, this new tortuous pursuit taken up on the heels of the last. Perhaps it's less my heart than my head that wants this. Most likely I don't care which is the case. Delusion or not, I want to believe it's my heart leading the way, and maybe by believing that I can learn to believe in my heart's ability to guide me safely to success. It's what I want.
*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
Sorry about how it went. That sucks. It is really hard to reject someone, and people often give mixed signals because they like being noticed or liked.
I agree with you about wanting to trust your heart, that it will lead you to safety, or to good choices at least on some levels even if not on manifest levels. I believe we are drawn to others who are good fits for us in some ways, there is some good and healthy reason for why this person appeals to us.
Date? What Date? (9/29/08 Monday)
Rolled out of bed, into Stacey's car, and off to work on just a couple hours sleep--no time to eat breakfast or make lunch. Julie was in her car when we pulled in beside her. I looked over, took a deep breath. Stacey said, "It'll be okay." It helped, but I still felt as if I'd slipped back a few months. I was afraid to see her, to have to talk to her, my resolve to start again on a different footing dissolving. I was getting angry with myself. But I turned and offered "Good morning," and we three walked in together, Stacey in the middle engaging Julie in conversation about their next possible hike. At the coffee shop Julie had invited me hiking with them, as a friendly gesture. I'd told Stacey such that evening. I think now she was bringing up hiking for my benefit, to contrive to get Julie and me together again.
Julie showed no signs of awkwardness toward me during the day, and no sign at all that she had been even the least affected by our get-together Saturday, if she, indeed, even remembered it. We shared the desk at eleven, and I thought I'd playfully remind her. I said, "So, how was your weekend?" She didn't turn when she said, "Oh, it was good. My new great-niece was born Saturday, so that made it pretty nice."
Did I hear crickets? Did she just pass right over our two hours together? Who is this? How many of her are there? Wow. Not even an ironic nod to my intimation. And the conversation continued in the usual Julie fashion, wherein I prompt her with a question or two, and she talks about herself. No thought of me, not even token reciprocation. Not a complaint, mind--that's just how she is; that is, no different than if we had only ever conversed at work. That's my complaint. This woman seems to have compartments within compartments. The complexity of her emotional defenses is beginning to frighten me. What is the pain that requires such partitioning? The task I've set before myself is now even more daunting.
Julie showed no signs of awkwardness toward me during the day, and no sign at all that she had been even the least affected by our get-together Saturday, if she, indeed, even remembered it. We shared the desk at eleven, and I thought I'd playfully remind her. I said, "So, how was your weekend?" She didn't turn when she said, "Oh, it was good. My new great-niece was born Saturday, so that made it pretty nice."
Did I hear crickets? Did she just pass right over our two hours together? Who is this? How many of her are there? Wow. Not even an ironic nod to my intimation. And the conversation continued in the usual Julie fashion, wherein I prompt her with a question or two, and she talks about herself. No thought of me, not even token reciprocation. Not a complaint, mind--that's just how she is; that is, no different than if we had only ever conversed at work. That's my complaint. This woman seems to have compartments within compartments. The complexity of her emotional defenses is beginning to frighten me. What is the pain that requires such partitioning? The task I've set before myself is now even more daunting.
It Couldn't Be That Hump on My Back, Could It? (10/01/08 Wednesday)
The questions don't stop, and the answers don't come. Of course, the most persistent is still, What ruled me out? My left-handedness? Not always covering my mouth when I sneeze? Glasses? Height? What? It isn't the most most important question, though it starts that muscle in my upper right shoulder tightening.
Is there any degree of artlessness to her behavior? And, if so, what degree of calculation is there? If there is artlessness to any degree, I believe it was cultivated by an intense practice of its converse: Practice made perfect, a kind of psychological muscle memory. It's something we all do, anyway; some of us must do it to a greater extent than others. I think of Julie's seeming obliviousness to my feelings toward her all this time, and I can't simply write it off as naivete. She's seeing what she wants to see, and she has an acutely atuned defense mechanism that can block anything from her consciousness with deft efficiency. Perhaps it seems a cruel attribution, and I admit a lingering bitterness has likely accelerated my logic to that extreme, but it's simply speculation, a gurgitation of possibilities. What else do I have to go on when I haven't keys to the castle?
But the bitterness is a factor. It blocks my compassion, the key to understanding any person, and isn't understanding Julie what I set out to do on this second go-round? It's only my intellect that isn't satisfied with what Julie told me Saturday. My heart understands that it wasn't a personal attack--only my pride thinks that. My heart knows Julie is only trying to protect herself. What part of me is it that wants to know why? I feel a sadness for her, but I don't want to pity her. I can't deny that I hope to gain by this endeavor, but I also know that her affection is, by a significant margin, the lesser of the gains I hope to make. I want to know Julie.
Am I being realistic? What's realistic in this case? The result and the possibility of attainment? Then realisticness isn't even a consideration yet, because though of course I want to succeed, I'm not pursuing success. This is not a hunt; there is no prey I want to kill.
Is there any degree of artlessness to her behavior? And, if so, what degree of calculation is there? If there is artlessness to any degree, I believe it was cultivated by an intense practice of its converse: Practice made perfect, a kind of psychological muscle memory. It's something we all do, anyway; some of us must do it to a greater extent than others. I think of Julie's seeming obliviousness to my feelings toward her all this time, and I can't simply write it off as naivete. She's seeing what she wants to see, and she has an acutely atuned defense mechanism that can block anything from her consciousness with deft efficiency. Perhaps it seems a cruel attribution, and I admit a lingering bitterness has likely accelerated my logic to that extreme, but it's simply speculation, a gurgitation of possibilities. What else do I have to go on when I haven't keys to the castle?
But the bitterness is a factor. It blocks my compassion, the key to understanding any person, and isn't understanding Julie what I set out to do on this second go-round? It's only my intellect that isn't satisfied with what Julie told me Saturday. My heart understands that it wasn't a personal attack--only my pride thinks that. My heart knows Julie is only trying to protect herself. What part of me is it that wants to know why? I feel a sadness for her, but I don't want to pity her. I can't deny that I hope to gain by this endeavor, but I also know that her affection is, by a significant margin, the lesser of the gains I hope to make. I want to know Julie.
Am I being realistic? What's realistic in this case? The result and the possibility of attainment? Then realisticness isn't even a consideration yet, because though of course I want to succeed, I'm not pursuing success. This is not a hunt; there is no prey I want to kill.
Who's Here to Relieve Me? (10/02/08 Thursday)
What if Julie just isn't as deep as I've imagined her? What does fascinate me about her? What has ever fascinated me about her? Surely more than her availability and proximity. It took most of a year for this crush to blossom. I was not attracted to her when I first saw her. Something grew from working with her. It may simply have sprung from the common interests discovered along the way. Was the fascination grown from the possibilities planted in this common ground? Is that enough?
It's been a difficult week for me. Yesterday, I started by trying to avoid her, but stepped right into her parlor. When I got in she was shelving, according to the schedule, and I was to do the same. The non-fiction cart was missing, so, assuming that to be her location, I took out the easies. But there she was. She had loaded a smaller cart with easies. I didn't greet her as I pulled up a row down from her. She didn't look up as I approached--at least, we didn't make eye contact. Feeling stupid for my (non) action, I seethed at myself as I hid among the lower shelves, where it seemed most of my books belonged.
"Here, hot off the presses." Julie stretched out a book to me. A page protruded above the rest. A scant glance from the book, a "Shrek 2" tie-in, saw a smile. I said, "I hope I can't fix it," and quickly inspected it. "Oh, it looks like I can." Got a little, maybe indulgent, chuckle out her. It was no icebreaker, though. Eventually, I asked her head, bowed over the books in the top bins, "How's it been today?" Without looking up, she said, "Oh, not bad. A little slow." That went no further, either. Much later in the day I remembered telling her Saturday that I had difficulty around her. It seemed now a good hedge against this most recent behavior, as well as such future behavior. By five, when I relieved her from the desk, I was nearly cheerful. "Are you here to relieve me?" she smiled up at me. "Yes, I am," I said to her eyes. He started past me then turned her head across her shoulder to look at me with a "Thank you" on her lips. The evening passed quickly.
It's been a difficult week for me. Yesterday, I started by trying to avoid her, but stepped right into her parlor. When I got in she was shelving, according to the schedule, and I was to do the same. The non-fiction cart was missing, so, assuming that to be her location, I took out the easies. But there she was. She had loaded a smaller cart with easies. I didn't greet her as I pulled up a row down from her. She didn't look up as I approached--at least, we didn't make eye contact. Feeling stupid for my (non) action, I seethed at myself as I hid among the lower shelves, where it seemed most of my books belonged.
"Here, hot off the presses." Julie stretched out a book to me. A page protruded above the rest. A scant glance from the book, a "Shrek 2" tie-in, saw a smile. I said, "I hope I can't fix it," and quickly inspected it. "Oh, it looks like I can." Got a little, maybe indulgent, chuckle out her. It was no icebreaker, though. Eventually, I asked her head, bowed over the books in the top bins, "How's it been today?" Without looking up, she said, "Oh, not bad. A little slow." That went no further, either. Much later in the day I remembered telling her Saturday that I had difficulty around her. It seemed now a good hedge against this most recent behavior, as well as such future behavior. By five, when I relieved her from the desk, I was nearly cheerful. "Are you here to relieve me?" she smiled up at me. "Yes, I am," I said to her eyes. He started past me then turned her head across her shoulder to look at me with a "Thank you" on her lips. The evening passed quickly.
Puzzles (10/03/08 Friday)
Mike's reaction to my Saturday experience was of respectful dismay--to the outcome and my strategy. He knew beforehand what the strategy would be, but it was only after its result that he ventured an opinion: I should have taken a much more casual approach to the discourse, been more patient. I could see his point, and told him so, but I also told him that at that level the discourse might never rise to the realm of ideas and emotions. "That might work for anyone else," I told him, "but not for me." Or with Julie, I said to myself. I did the right thing; Julie knows how I feel about her and hasn't pushed me away. How could chat have accomplished that?
Yesterday evening at work I strolled to the breakroom to fix my second cup of tea. Julie was already there, on the same mission. The silence outside the burbling pot quickly discomfited me. Then Julie said, "I thought you were working on that puzzle." The table on which we'd together assembled three jigsaws was bare of the puzzle I'd started on it last week in hopes of eliciting her participation. She'd never joined me.
"I was."
"Did you put it away?"
"Yes, I did."
"Why?"
It was a question I'd been pondering since Monday, when I swept the pieces back into the box and replaced it on the top of the fridge. My lips parted, closed again. I took in and let out a deep breath before turning to her. "I lost interest," I told her, thinking as I held her gaze, "because it's no fun alone."
The water roiled. She said to it, "I have to get that card table out of my storage unit." She'd mentioned bringing it in for us to build our puzzles on.
"What else is in your storage unit?" I asked with a bit of bitter mischief before I recognized it as such and had a chance to stop it.
Instead of giving me the usual motive-seeking stare, she said to the pot, "Oh, boxes. My housewares."
I was suddenly glad I hadn't simply microwaved a mug of water. Still without a discreet editor, I asked, "So, was it the plan all along that when your mom moved up here you would live with her?"
"Not really," she said to me. "When I moved up here my mother didn't really want to live there alone."
I sent her a puzzled squint. She poured our water. "But," I said, "don't you have a brother down there?"
She looked away, hesitated. I looked at my mug, started to mutter an apology for what I'd perceived as an infliction of pain.
Slowly, with calculated restraint, she said, "They...probably...wouldn't help her as often as she would like."
My editor put a finger to his lips. I obeyed.
Yesterday evening at work I strolled to the breakroom to fix my second cup of tea. Julie was already there, on the same mission. The silence outside the burbling pot quickly discomfited me. Then Julie said, "I thought you were working on that puzzle." The table on which we'd together assembled three jigsaws was bare of the puzzle I'd started on it last week in hopes of eliciting her participation. She'd never joined me.
"I was."
"Did you put it away?"
"Yes, I did."
"Why?"
It was a question I'd been pondering since Monday, when I swept the pieces back into the box and replaced it on the top of the fridge. My lips parted, closed again. I took in and let out a deep breath before turning to her. "I lost interest," I told her, thinking as I held her gaze, "because it's no fun alone."
The water roiled. She said to it, "I have to get that card table out of my storage unit." She'd mentioned bringing it in for us to build our puzzles on.
"What else is in your storage unit?" I asked with a bit of bitter mischief before I recognized it as such and had a chance to stop it.
Instead of giving me the usual motive-seeking stare, she said to the pot, "Oh, boxes. My housewares."
I was suddenly glad I hadn't simply microwaved a mug of water. Still without a discreet editor, I asked, "So, was it the plan all along that when your mom moved up here you would live with her?"
"Not really," she said to me. "When I moved up here my mother didn't really want to live there alone."
I sent her a puzzled squint. She poured our water. "But," I said, "don't you have a brother down there?"
She looked away, hesitated. I looked at my mug, started to mutter an apology for what I'd perceived as an infliction of pain.
Slowly, with calculated restraint, she said, "They...probably...wouldn't help her as often as she would like."
My editor put a finger to his lips. I obeyed.
A Puppy, Not a Baby (10/07/08 Tuesday)
Woke this morning to the realization that only one work week had passed since tea with Julie, and many times during the day--and even now, at ten p.m.--I counted back the days for verification, and each time came up incredulous. Certainly, the first three days of last week were difficult and long, but the fourth was, if not a triumph in but the most optimistic spin of the word, at least headway--some insight into her darkness and decided candor of my own. Still, it was not a long way to have come over the course of the week.
The distance, this perceived temporal elongation, has, I believe been induced by Julie's thorough displacement of the event. I searched in vain all week for a sign of acknowledgement of something that by the beginning of this week I had allowed her to make me believe was only a distant memory quickly fading into doubt, as confusing as this sentence.
Yet, in a way, there has been an acknowledgement from her of my proclaimed affections--or I'm grasping at straws. I'm hesitant even to acknowledge that myself, to somehow make it true by writing it. So I won't, without substantial corroborating evidence. (I believe that that is at least proof that my heart is in the driver's seat here: Despite the sober caution, I did not allow the head to rationalize a chimera into existence. The Wise Man and the Fool both are spectators at this event.)
In looking for that sign from Julie, patience will not likely win out, but I'm counting on just enough to force the issue, if subtly and only an inch or two. Just as in asking her out, there are two essential elements involved in the success of my next task--knowing what that task is, of course, and knowing when to perform it. I have had the task in mind for most of a week now, since shortly after the failure of "How was your weekend?" and I'm simply waiting for that most opportune of scheduled work moments to implement it: On our next mutual hour on the desk together I will tell her, in effect or verbatim--depending on my nerve--"Julie, for the record, I still find you fascinating." I may even raise my hand and turn my head afterwards as if to both deflect comment from her and defer elaboration from myself; but that gesture is wholly dependent upon my confidence in the strength of my statement. I think I have a lot of capital to bank on, given Julie's virtual detachment, but it might be only just enough. I'm only looking for a rise. I don't want to send her scuttling back across the drawbridge. A smile would do, and would do for quite a while--or, rather, would have to do for quite a while, for I want her to remain aware of my affections without feeling any threat from them. I would like to simply set them on her doorstep without a note and walk away. I'm not asking for more than she can give, nor even more than she thinks she can give. At the very least, I want her to know that I could never do her any kind of harm. At the most.... Well, I'm just not sure about that yet.
The distance, this perceived temporal elongation, has, I believe been induced by Julie's thorough displacement of the event. I searched in vain all week for a sign of acknowledgement of something that by the beginning of this week I had allowed her to make me believe was only a distant memory quickly fading into doubt, as confusing as this sentence.
Yet, in a way, there has been an acknowledgement from her of my proclaimed affections--or I'm grasping at straws. I'm hesitant even to acknowledge that myself, to somehow make it true by writing it. So I won't, without substantial corroborating evidence. (I believe that that is at least proof that my heart is in the driver's seat here: Despite the sober caution, I did not allow the head to rationalize a chimera into existence. The Wise Man and the Fool both are spectators at this event.)
In looking for that sign from Julie, patience will not likely win out, but I'm counting on just enough to force the issue, if subtly and only an inch or two. Just as in asking her out, there are two essential elements involved in the success of my next task--knowing what that task is, of course, and knowing when to perform it. I have had the task in mind for most of a week now, since shortly after the failure of "How was your weekend?" and I'm simply waiting for that most opportune of scheduled work moments to implement it: On our next mutual hour on the desk together I will tell her, in effect or verbatim--depending on my nerve--"Julie, for the record, I still find you fascinating." I may even raise my hand and turn my head afterwards as if to both deflect comment from her and defer elaboration from myself; but that gesture is wholly dependent upon my confidence in the strength of my statement. I think I have a lot of capital to bank on, given Julie's virtual detachment, but it might be only just enough. I'm only looking for a rise. I don't want to send her scuttling back across the drawbridge. A smile would do, and would do for quite a while--or, rather, would have to do for quite a while, for I want her to remain aware of my affections without feeling any threat from them. I would like to simply set them on her doorstep without a note and walk away. I'm not asking for more than she can give, nor even more than she thinks she can give. At the very least, I want her to know that I could never do her any kind of harm. At the most.... Well, I'm just not sure about that yet.
Next, We'll Try the Drunken Advice (10/08/08 Wednesday)
I told Gay-Lynn yesterday. She had gone about the library a few weeks ago with a camera, taking casual head shots of us all. First thing, I walked into her office, closed the door, and asked her to send me Julie's picture. "You aren't going to do anything mean with it, are you?" she asked. "No, no, no, no, no," I said, a tad surprised she felt a need to ask me. "This is purely for my own enjoyment." "She is beautiful." I murmured reverent assent then said, "I had tea with her, outside work, not this past Saturday but the one before." Gay-Lynn clasped her hands in front of her mouth and squeaked, "Ooh!" I hated to disappoint her, but added, "I got the 'nice guy' line." She sank. "Well," she said, "give it time. Things can change; the longer you work together, the better she'll get to know you."
I left her office with one more ally and cheerleader, someone else who will look at both Julie and me differently, puzzling over Julie as I do, meanwhile sympathizing with me, wondering why she's passed me up. Or, perhaps, wondering what could be wrong with me that would put her off. Whimsical confidence fantasizes such a groundswell of indignance over Julie's rejection of me that she, at worst, caves in and gives me a second chance; or, at best, admits to herself the error of her philosophy and welcomes me back with renewed appreciation. This seems not so far removed from that fanciful hope of having everyone know about my crush except Julie, at whom it finally jumps out, as at a surprise party when the lights go up. All fantasy, I know, especially with that thick-shelled nut breaking all my tools.
I left her office with one more ally and cheerleader, someone else who will look at both Julie and me differently, puzzling over Julie as I do, meanwhile sympathizing with me, wondering why she's passed me up. Or, perhaps, wondering what could be wrong with me that would put her off. Whimsical confidence fantasizes such a groundswell of indignance over Julie's rejection of me that she, at worst, caves in and gives me a second chance; or, at best, admits to herself the error of her philosophy and welcomes me back with renewed appreciation. This seems not so far removed from that fanciful hope of having everyone know about my crush except Julie, at whom it finally jumps out, as at a surprise party when the lights go up. All fantasy, I know, especially with that thick-shelled nut breaking all my tools.
*****
Tomorrow night at six: My latest D-Hour. It's going to happen; I just have to avoid working myself into a knot of dread. There seem all kinds of reasons not to do this, but I'll make no attempt to identify them; consequently, undefined, they gain no existence. I rode with Mike tonight and told him of the mutual desk hour and that I was going to "work on" Julie, but I didn't clue him in on the precise strategy, knowing how he felt about my previous one. I was afraid he might dampen it with caution. He's on my side; he just doesn't indulge my fancy as much as Stacey or Hinckley would. He said tonight, "You said she told you she had a good time at the coffee shop, but maybe she didn't." I had to ask him to repeat it. It was too sober. Maybe not what I really want right now. All I want is to not talk myself down from the throne of resolve. That and a change in my attitude at work from the serious regression I've suffered this week. I've hardly been able to say hello, and she looks right through me. But I'm psyching myself out.
In the workroom today Angie showed me a movie she likes. It had Sharon Stone in it, whom I told Angie I didn't like. Angie was disbelieving and asked me about this actress and that actress, of all of whom I emphatically denied any appreciation. "Well, who do you like?" she said. I pointed to the picture on the storage cabinet over my desk. "Who's that?" "Gillian Anderson." "Oh, she's alright." "Alright?" "She's cute, I guess." She tried a few more on me, and when she got to Angelina Jolie I exclaimed stridently, "No!" "Well, you know what you like, and you can look at her any time you like." "I do," said, looking at Julie's profile at the discharge counter. "I look at her every day."
In the workroom today Angie showed me a movie she likes. It had Sharon Stone in it, whom I told Angie I didn't like. Angie was disbelieving and asked me about this actress and that actress, of all of whom I emphatically denied any appreciation. "Well, who do you like?" she said. I pointed to the picture on the storage cabinet over my desk. "Who's that?" "Gillian Anderson." "Oh, she's alright." "Alright?" "She's cute, I guess." She tried a few more on me, and when she got to Angelina Jolie I exclaimed stridently, "No!" "Well, you know what you like, and you can look at her any time you like." "I do," said, looking at Julie's profile at the discharge counter. "I look at her every day."
Tiptoeing Elephant (10/09/08 Thursday)
When I told Julie on that long-ago Saturday that I was done pussyfooting I was challenging myself, forcing a resolve that I hadn't fully acquired. And when I think of that I feel the resolve and know that it's the most important thing I can grasp, that from it comes all the strength and truth of my mission. Which is...? Eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, jaw set, I stare out the window, don't see the answer. Part of me--I'm afraid to know which, the neurotic or the realist--doesn't believe there is an answer--at least one that doesn't expose the whole endeavor as a tilting at windmills. As it may very well be. Will I know it when I see it? Can I even possibly see it? But that is a long way off. I have a lot of work to do.
Sometimes it feels as if the work is the thing, a challenge for the sake of challenge. Not only am I willing to believe that, but I'm willing to embrace it as likely the best way to focus. But I could focus better if I could bring the challenge into sharper definition, break it into manageable chunks for incremental goal-setting. If I can see progress I will be encouraged. Doubt is the ultimate regressor, taking the sunlight from the path ahead for a spotlight on the road already traveled. For this journey I need only know the way ahead. Where is the light?
Sometimes it feels as if the work is the thing, a challenge for the sake of challenge. Not only am I willing to believe that, but I'm willing to embrace it as likely the best way to focus. But I could focus better if I could bring the challenge into sharper definition, break it into manageable chunks for incremental goal-setting. If I can see progress I will be encouraged. Doubt is the ultimate regressor, taking the sunlight from the path ahead for a spotlight on the road already traveled. For this journey I need only know the way ahead. Where is the light?
*****
Crack! Or, more accurately, Chip!
As with asking Julie out, knowing the time and place of my latest, next-important endeavor hardened my resolve. I started right off the bat with a small confidence, telling her that I had "Hallelujah" by Prefab Sprout running through my head, and had had for the better part of these two days. "Been listening to Prefab Sprout, have you?" "Well, I hadn't been, but I played it today because the snippet I had in my head yesterday wasn't long enough to give me the title." We each had a patron or two to deal with, then I brought some leasebooks out of the workroom to shelve. I didn't want to attack her straightaway and perhaps reveal a desperate agenda, but the ticking clock and the closing window preyed on my diligence. I finished the shelving in time for a sudden flurry of activity at the desk. The clock was ticking louder and the window creaking down the sash when a man with a straining plastic bag approached from Children's. Without parting teeth or moving lips, I quietly hissed, "Use the self-check, use the self-check." He didn't, and I despatched him as quickly as courtesy allowed. Julie worked on a registration. The rush might have lasted all of ten minutes, but it seemed as if no air were getting through that window by the time it ended. A trio of chatters lingered near the desk and my teeth tried to make dust of one another, when Julie said, "Poor Mike." He was trying to shelve the fiction DVD's, whose stock woefully dwarfs the allotted space for their display. I stood and moved toward the higher counter between us. "Poor anybody who has to shelve DVD's, " I said. "I've shifted them all twice this week." Ensuing was a short discussion about the problem, then a lull. I slid away from the partition. The trio was still there, but I knew this to be the time and beat back a nervous hesitation before sliding back toward her.
"For the record, Julie," I said, "and then I'll shut up..." I paused while she turned to me. Adrenaline surged. I never felt more confident. As I spoke the next words, the volume of my voice descended to less than a whisper. I couldn't hear the last word, only feel my lips form it and my breath push it through..."you still fascinate me."
Instantly, she turned away (but not before I caught the bloom on her cheeks), dropping her head, her hair falling over her face, and I heard the most delightful, most charming, most endearing murmur issue from the mask: "You've embarrassed me."
And from me, spontaneously, came the upraised hand and the turned-away head. "I just had to say that," I said, and sat down heart thudding, imaginary fist pumping.
Neither of us ventured a glance at the other for a moment till I noticed, peripherally, Julie throw her hair off her face. She then reached up to the counter and straightened bookmarks that didn't need straightening (because I'd just done it). Looked like victory to me. Soon, she left her seat for the magazine area, ostensibly to tidy them and pick up the strays, but possibly to pick up a few of her own pieces. She returned visibly recomposed. The rest of the hour was business as usual, even with a little chat, though of course not about That.
I have since, of course, analyzed the event and my actions therein, and found the usual cast of missed opportunities and regrets, but I have cast them adrift like whiny mutineers. I behaved in accord with my nature; to have done otherwise would have been a regret impossible to throw overboard. After all, I am not just trying to know Julie, but myself as well. I was myself in that moment, and that just might have been as great a triumph as the moment itself.
So, what now? I asked myself that on a Saturday almost two weeks ago, and I'm still waiting on that reply. I don't believe I have an advantage, per se. This is not a game or competition. What I have is an opportunity. What I have is a heightened understanding. What I have is a deeper appreciation and respect for Julie and higher value for our friendship.
What do I do with what I have? It may be too late at night to ponder that one efficiently, but I don't mind a sloppy go at it. If I want, as I've claimed, to get to know Julie first and foremost, then I have to give myself, come out of my self and my self-conscious cares, to find out who she is. Yes, I want her. Did I ever deny that? But though I also want to have fun, I have to stop treating this as a game. This is not for my amusement, or even for my gain. Purely and simply, I have to remove my self. (Well, purely, anyway.) If this is not for my gain, then I should not seek gain, but accept it as a consequence of compassion. That gain will be the understanding I seek. I feel that. I know that. I believe that. How do I do that?
As with asking Julie out, knowing the time and place of my latest, next-important endeavor hardened my resolve. I started right off the bat with a small confidence, telling her that I had "Hallelujah" by Prefab Sprout running through my head, and had had for the better part of these two days. "Been listening to Prefab Sprout, have you?" "Well, I hadn't been, but I played it today because the snippet I had in my head yesterday wasn't long enough to give me the title." We each had a patron or two to deal with, then I brought some leasebooks out of the workroom to shelve. I didn't want to attack her straightaway and perhaps reveal a desperate agenda, but the ticking clock and the closing window preyed on my diligence. I finished the shelving in time for a sudden flurry of activity at the desk. The clock was ticking louder and the window creaking down the sash when a man with a straining plastic bag approached from Children's. Without parting teeth or moving lips, I quietly hissed, "Use the self-check, use the self-check." He didn't, and I despatched him as quickly as courtesy allowed. Julie worked on a registration. The rush might have lasted all of ten minutes, but it seemed as if no air were getting through that window by the time it ended. A trio of chatters lingered near the desk and my teeth tried to make dust of one another, when Julie said, "Poor Mike." He was trying to shelve the fiction DVD's, whose stock woefully dwarfs the allotted space for their display. I stood and moved toward the higher counter between us. "Poor anybody who has to shelve DVD's, " I said. "I've shifted them all twice this week." Ensuing was a short discussion about the problem, then a lull. I slid away from the partition. The trio was still there, but I knew this to be the time and beat back a nervous hesitation before sliding back toward her.
"For the record, Julie," I said, "and then I'll shut up..." I paused while she turned to me. Adrenaline surged. I never felt more confident. As I spoke the next words, the volume of my voice descended to less than a whisper. I couldn't hear the last word, only feel my lips form it and my breath push it through..."you still fascinate me."
Instantly, she turned away (but not before I caught the bloom on her cheeks), dropping her head, her hair falling over her face, and I heard the most delightful, most charming, most endearing murmur issue from the mask: "You've embarrassed me."
And from me, spontaneously, came the upraised hand and the turned-away head. "I just had to say that," I said, and sat down heart thudding, imaginary fist pumping.
Neither of us ventured a glance at the other for a moment till I noticed, peripherally, Julie throw her hair off her face. She then reached up to the counter and straightened bookmarks that didn't need straightening (because I'd just done it). Looked like victory to me. Soon, she left her seat for the magazine area, ostensibly to tidy them and pick up the strays, but possibly to pick up a few of her own pieces. She returned visibly recomposed. The rest of the hour was business as usual, even with a little chat, though of course not about That.
I have since, of course, analyzed the event and my actions therein, and found the usual cast of missed opportunities and regrets, but I have cast them adrift like whiny mutineers. I behaved in accord with my nature; to have done otherwise would have been a regret impossible to throw overboard. After all, I am not just trying to know Julie, but myself as well. I was myself in that moment, and that just might have been as great a triumph as the moment itself.
So, what now? I asked myself that on a Saturday almost two weeks ago, and I'm still waiting on that reply. I don't believe I have an advantage, per se. This is not a game or competition. What I have is an opportunity. What I have is a heightened understanding. What I have is a deeper appreciation and respect for Julie and higher value for our friendship.
What do I do with what I have? It may be too late at night to ponder that one efficiently, but I don't mind a sloppy go at it. If I want, as I've claimed, to get to know Julie first and foremost, then I have to give myself, come out of my self and my self-conscious cares, to find out who she is. Yes, I want her. Did I ever deny that? But though I also want to have fun, I have to stop treating this as a game. This is not for my amusement, or even for my gain. Purely and simply, I have to remove my self. (Well, purely, anyway.) If this is not for my gain, then I should not seek gain, but accept it as a consequence of compassion. That gain will be the understanding I seek. I feel that. I know that. I believe that. How do I do that?
I Don't Think I'll Ever Get That Thirty-Day Chip (10/10/08 Friday)
I tried to build on yesterday, but I just didn't know how. I was friendly toward Julie, but I couldn't find the balance between "knowing" and indifference, and Julie, if anything, seemed a bit more aloof. But there I go seeing things. If that blush last night wasn't good enough for my confidence, what will be? I'm tempted to blame it on Julie's shell, but that would be grossly unfair. Where's the compassion? Where's the actual interest in getting to know her? I'm trying to validate my feelings for her through her. What the hell have I learned in five months? That I have all the answers and don't know what to do with them. There's an organic problem that goes deeper than any neatly boxed rationale. I don't need a self-help book full of mental tricks. It's not a New Year's resolution. It's not deciding to be a certain way and doing certain things toward that end. It's me looking where I don't want to look to find what I don't want to find and doing the work I don't want to do. And the irony is, these are just words.
Here's a revelation: I'm obsessed. Care to dispute that? I deny myself any bit of life that distracts me from Julie. Everything I do is for her approval or notice. How can I expect that of someone or subject myself to it? Is this something I didn't know? No, just something I hadn't admitted. Is this an addiction? I think I've just taken the first step. "Hello, my name is Dion, and I'm addicted to Julie." What comes next? Apology? Who have I hurt, and how, with this addiction? Don't tell me.
And my support group and sponsor is me. Not much help there. Hinckley, Stacey, and Mike have been great helping do what I've told them I wanted to do, but when is one of them going to tell me what I've just told myself? When I'm with them, how much do I care about anything but the one person I'm not with? As happens with nearly everyone in my life, I've come to take them for granted, taking what I need, giving little, and ignoring them when they've outlived their usefulness. How much have I really grown? How much do I really appreciate anyone?
And what do I do about any of these discoveries besides beat myself up over them? Where's the compasion for myself? Not the self-pity--that's been done to death (sadly, not it's own). When am I going to stop accepting these things and do something about them? These are not among those acceptable flaws. I wasn't born this way; I was made this way; and I can be unmade and put back together the right way. Can't I?
Here's a revelation: I'm obsessed. Care to dispute that? I deny myself any bit of life that distracts me from Julie. Everything I do is for her approval or notice. How can I expect that of someone or subject myself to it? Is this something I didn't know? No, just something I hadn't admitted. Is this an addiction? I think I've just taken the first step. "Hello, my name is Dion, and I'm addicted to Julie." What comes next? Apology? Who have I hurt, and how, with this addiction? Don't tell me.
And my support group and sponsor is me. Not much help there. Hinckley, Stacey, and Mike have been great helping do what I've told them I wanted to do, but when is one of them going to tell me what I've just told myself? When I'm with them, how much do I care about anything but the one person I'm not with? As happens with nearly everyone in my life, I've come to take them for granted, taking what I need, giving little, and ignoring them when they've outlived their usefulness. How much have I really grown? How much do I really appreciate anyone?
And what do I do about any of these discoveries besides beat myself up over them? Where's the compasion for myself? Not the self-pity--that's been done to death (sadly, not it's own). When am I going to stop accepting these things and do something about them? These are not among those acceptable flaws. I wasn't born this way; I was made this way; and I can be unmade and put back together the right way. Can't I?
Zoo or Lab? (10/13/08 Monday)
I'm not the least bit equipped to deal with this, yet I can't let go--or it won't let go of me. Distraction is impossible, even at home. Is it, indeed, gripping me, caging me? I'm trapped. I can't get to my life, I can't get away from Julie in any way. If not for Julie I wouldn't be writing again, though suddenly I wonder if that's a good thing. Is this a passion or an obsession? Is there a difference? A practical difference? I see no way out but to bring it out in the open. Not to spite Julie, but to stop hiding, stop pretending I'm able to deal with this on my own. The advice of the people I've trusted with the problem would be stacked against that strategy, but when did I ever really listen, except when Hinckley told me to "go for it"? I've certainly been desperate along this trail, but I've never felt more so than now. But desperate for what? I don't want to force Julie into any action against me. I don't want to put any more stress on her than I already have, but I just can't pussyfoot around the way I feel, and I can't turn it off. I try to find things about her to build up a debit against her, but if they're there I can't see them.
I am caged. I have no room to discuss this with Julie, who is the only person with whom this needs discussing, and that enrages me! "Great guy"! "Great guy"! What's so fucking great?! How can that change anything? It doesn't break that clot of stress that builds up in my right shoulder at the thought of her or the sound of her voice. It doesn't let me sleep all night. It doesn't do anything but listen to me shriek and watch me roll violently around the cage walls tearing my hair out and shredding white knuckles on the bars.
I tried not to write after Saturday, but my mind began to eat itself. I've had no one to talk to anywhere. Stacey seems tired of hearing me talk about it, Mike doesn't mention it, and I've barely had a word with Hinckley in over a week. I've become tiresome. Nobody will tell me to give Julie up, but they can't indulge me any longer, either. Dammit, won't someone be honest with me?
I am caged. I have no room to discuss this with Julie, who is the only person with whom this needs discussing, and that enrages me! "Great guy"! "Great guy"! What's so fucking great?! How can that change anything? It doesn't break that clot of stress that builds up in my right shoulder at the thought of her or the sound of her voice. It doesn't let me sleep all night. It doesn't do anything but listen to me shriek and watch me roll violently around the cage walls tearing my hair out and shredding white knuckles on the bars.
I tried not to write after Saturday, but my mind began to eat itself. I've had no one to talk to anywhere. Stacey seems tired of hearing me talk about it, Mike doesn't mention it, and I've barely had a word with Hinckley in over a week. I've become tiresome. Nobody will tell me to give Julie up, but they can't indulge me any longer, either. Dammit, won't someone be honest with me?
One Hammer Handle, One Toothless Saw (No Anaesthetic) (10/15/08 Wednesday)
Got a glimpse in the toolbox yesterday. The inventory was obvious.
My early day and Julie's late, I knew already I'd try to avoid her. It worked until she showed up. The desk was my duty after lunch, and I went straight there from the computers upstairs. For half an hour I was fine. Then a patron couldn't find her hold. I double-checked the hold shelves, hoping to find it misshelved and avoid a trip to the back. It wasn't there. I'd keep blinders on, not look for or see Julie, if I could help it. I open the door to the workroom and guess who crosses my path, returing from mail-packing with a small cart? I saw her glance at me and couldn't smile: That big-eyed smileless face scared me lifeless. I mumbled, "Hi, Julie," got no reaction. Perhaps she hadn't heard me, but that's not what my mind made of it. I was sunk, a well-cast pebble capsizing my battleship. I looked on the sorting carts, then made the mistake that fatally challenged my equipage: I asked Mary Lou if she had any holds. She didn't have any, but had to bounce from her desk to follow me out. "It's not out here!" I all but belllowed at her as I opened the door. Her bad hearing selectively ignored me, and again at the holds shelf, when after she checked where I just had and declared, "It's not there," I replied loudly, in front of the patron, "We know that, already!" and turned to check the stacks. I found it there, but that didn't rid me of Mary Lou. She was in front of my monitor when I got back. I inserted myself in between and inflated like a mad toad to block the screen from her view. Mary Lou asked, "Is that the one we should've trapped?" "I don't know," I curtly replied. "It doesn't matter. Just go away." She did. My behavior in front of the patron disgusted me, but I wasn't feeling apologetic toward Mary Lou, and at first intended to elaborate on my displeasure when I got off the desk. But good as that might have made me feel immediately, it wouldn't have stood me well with my other coworkers, though it might have served notice to Mary Lou to just not "help" me in the future.
I couldn't sit the rest of the hour. I knew it was time to talk to Tammy; this was not work-related. My first intention upon getting her ear was to get the rest of the day off--flee--but we were short-handed and I didn't want to make matters worse. I was at the window the next hour. I listened for the sound of her keyboard and approached her in her office. "Will you be here, in your office, next hour?" Slowly, she answered, "Yeah," almost with a question mark. I said, "I need to talk with you." "Oh, no," she said, dripping dread and sympathy. We settled on the next hour, though she'd have to leave at a quarter after. I got back to my post, feeling better already. Just a few minutes later, though, she found me and told me she'd gotten Becky to cover the window for me, and I followed her into her office.
I closed the door behind me. "Uh-oh," said Tammy. "Closed door meeting. I don't think we've had one of these with you before."
"I don't think it's that bad."
"Oh, good."
"I don't think it's that bad."
"Oh." Her lips froze around the word.
I took a deep breath and stared at the wall a moment before turning back to her. "I'm having trouble," I said, "working with someone here." I hadn't really known what I was going to say, so I was being careful. I knew I could trust her, but.... "It's not about their attitude or their work habits, or anything like that." Tammy was leaning toward me across her desk. "I guess I should tell you who it is."
"You better," she laughed, "now that you've built up the suspense."
"It's Julie."
"Julie?" More than incredulity was written across her face. The reaction unsettled me slightly, but relieved me somehow, too.
"A couple weeks ago," I started--"no, a few weeks ago, I asked Julie out for tea, and I , uh, expressed myself." I was pleased with the expression; Tammy's laugh confirmed her understanding. "But I got the 'nice guy' line."
"Oh, no!" She seemed almost to take it personally. "Oh, that's so sad!"
"Well, so, since then it's been very difficult working around her. I've been very...erratic, for lack of a better word." I hesitated to, but concisely detailed Julie's stated philosophy on getting to know someone. Tammy's puzzlement equalled mine of the time--and that of everyone else I've told.
Besides offering to schedule Julie and me away from each other--"Or would that make it worse?" "Much worse"--Tammy had no solutions, but I wasn't expecting or wanting that. She offered a sympathetic ear, and that was what I needed.
Tammy told me she'd noticed "something, some"--she pointed her fingers at each other and wiggled them--"spark."
"Oh, really." I shouldn't have been surprised, nor even at my lack of notice. I'd thought that "feminine intuition" had failed the test in the workplace, but it was only my powers of observation as I was absorbed in my mission; though maybe my fear of discovery was well-founded.
"And I wasn't the only one." I wanted names but thought that indiscreet. "With the puzzles, you two bent over the together. And other things." Again, I didn't let myself ask for elaboration.
We talked for the better part of the hour. As usual, I wished I'd done this long ago. How could I doubt anymore that someone would be rooting for me? I went back to the window, just a few feet from Julie at her desk, feeling nearly buoyant from the lifted weight. I never did ask to leave early.
My early day and Julie's late, I knew already I'd try to avoid her. It worked until she showed up. The desk was my duty after lunch, and I went straight there from the computers upstairs. For half an hour I was fine. Then a patron couldn't find her hold. I double-checked the hold shelves, hoping to find it misshelved and avoid a trip to the back. It wasn't there. I'd keep blinders on, not look for or see Julie, if I could help it. I open the door to the workroom and guess who crosses my path, returing from mail-packing with a small cart? I saw her glance at me and couldn't smile: That big-eyed smileless face scared me lifeless. I mumbled, "Hi, Julie," got no reaction. Perhaps she hadn't heard me, but that's not what my mind made of it. I was sunk, a well-cast pebble capsizing my battleship. I looked on the sorting carts, then made the mistake that fatally challenged my equipage: I asked Mary Lou if she had any holds. She didn't have any, but had to bounce from her desk to follow me out. "It's not out here!" I all but belllowed at her as I opened the door. Her bad hearing selectively ignored me, and again at the holds shelf, when after she checked where I just had and declared, "It's not there," I replied loudly, in front of the patron, "We know that, already!" and turned to check the stacks. I found it there, but that didn't rid me of Mary Lou. She was in front of my monitor when I got back. I inserted myself in between and inflated like a mad toad to block the screen from her view. Mary Lou asked, "Is that the one we should've trapped?" "I don't know," I curtly replied. "It doesn't matter. Just go away." She did. My behavior in front of the patron disgusted me, but I wasn't feeling apologetic toward Mary Lou, and at first intended to elaborate on my displeasure when I got off the desk. But good as that might have made me feel immediately, it wouldn't have stood me well with my other coworkers, though it might have served notice to Mary Lou to just not "help" me in the future.
I couldn't sit the rest of the hour. I knew it was time to talk to Tammy; this was not work-related. My first intention upon getting her ear was to get the rest of the day off--flee--but we were short-handed and I didn't want to make matters worse. I was at the window the next hour. I listened for the sound of her keyboard and approached her in her office. "Will you be here, in your office, next hour?" Slowly, she answered, "Yeah," almost with a question mark. I said, "I need to talk with you." "Oh, no," she said, dripping dread and sympathy. We settled on the next hour, though she'd have to leave at a quarter after. I got back to my post, feeling better already. Just a few minutes later, though, she found me and told me she'd gotten Becky to cover the window for me, and I followed her into her office.
I closed the door behind me. "Uh-oh," said Tammy. "Closed door meeting. I don't think we've had one of these with you before."
"I don't think it's that bad."
"Oh, good."
"I don't think it's that bad."
"Oh." Her lips froze around the word.
I took a deep breath and stared at the wall a moment before turning back to her. "I'm having trouble," I said, "working with someone here." I hadn't really known what I was going to say, so I was being careful. I knew I could trust her, but.... "It's not about their attitude or their work habits, or anything like that." Tammy was leaning toward me across her desk. "I guess I should tell you who it is."
"You better," she laughed, "now that you've built up the suspense."
"It's Julie."
"Julie?" More than incredulity was written across her face. The reaction unsettled me slightly, but relieved me somehow, too.
"A couple weeks ago," I started--"no, a few weeks ago, I asked Julie out for tea, and I , uh, expressed myself." I was pleased with the expression; Tammy's laugh confirmed her understanding. "But I got the 'nice guy' line."
"Oh, no!" She seemed almost to take it personally. "Oh, that's so sad!"
"Well, so, since then it's been very difficult working around her. I've been very...erratic, for lack of a better word." I hesitated to, but concisely detailed Julie's stated philosophy on getting to know someone. Tammy's puzzlement equalled mine of the time--and that of everyone else I've told.
Besides offering to schedule Julie and me away from each other--"Or would that make it worse?" "Much worse"--Tammy had no solutions, but I wasn't expecting or wanting that. She offered a sympathetic ear, and that was what I needed.
Tammy told me she'd noticed "something, some"--she pointed her fingers at each other and wiggled them--"spark."
"Oh, really." I shouldn't have been surprised, nor even at my lack of notice. I'd thought that "feminine intuition" had failed the test in the workplace, but it was only my powers of observation as I was absorbed in my mission; though maybe my fear of discovery was well-founded.
"And I wasn't the only one." I wanted names but thought that indiscreet. "With the puzzles, you two bent over the together. And other things." Again, I didn't let myself ask for elaboration.
We talked for the better part of the hour. As usual, I wished I'd done this long ago. How could I doubt anymore that someone would be rooting for me? I went back to the window, just a few feet from Julie at her desk, feeling nearly buoyant from the lifted weight. I never did ask to leave early.
The Unleavenedth Hour (10/17/08 Friday)
The relief lasted until I came in yesterday--or, rather, until I saw Julie's car in the lot as Stacey pulled in with me and Hinckley. I'd always rather get in before Julie; I don't want to see her before I can at least pretend I'm immersed in work--checking email, repairing books, sorting carts--so I can pretend I didn't notice her arrival. Pathetic, eh?
So I was already besieged by neuroses armed to the teeth when I turned the corner of my desk and reflexively glanced down the row to the last desk. Every day Julie is more entrancingly beautiful than the day before. It seems almost a taunt. She was wearing a sleeveless, black-print dress. I was lost. The schedule said shelving at the top of the hour. The carts were all nearly empty. A discharge cart needed emptying. I started toward it, but its proximity to Julie, a desk away, might as well have been my head in the lion's mouth. I backed away, my mind a riot, and fled the workroom with the heels of my hands against my temples. A tour of the hallway was no relief. I resolved to grab a cart and escape into the stacks pronto.
I took the fiction. It was the heaviest cart, but still not half-full. And though not half-sorted, either, it didn't take long (enough) to empty. With blinders on, I returned, sat at my desk to repair a small stack of books. The end of the day seemed impossibly far away. I took off my glasses, squeezed the bridge of my nose. It occurred to me then that if I couldn't see I couldn't see Julie. Three of the books were goners; I took them to the second discharge counter to send them on their way, leaving my glasses behind. Mike was at the first station. "Did you get a ride in?" he asked. "Yeah. But I wish I'd come in on my own. I already feel like leaving." "You don't look like you're feeling well." "Oh, it's not physical; it's emotional." "Well, let me know if you want to talk about it." "Sure. Thanks."
Last in my stack was a book/CD Julie had given me the day before. "A present for you," she'd said, handing it to me. "But it's not my birthday yet," I'd replied, stinging myself with the lame response. The block and front board were separated, but I noticed a piece of tape across the back of the CD inset in the board. I replaced my glasses (I didn't want her to ask; I would've told her) and strolled to her desk. "Julie." "Yes?" She removed her headphones. "Did you notice this when you gave it to me yesterday?" I handed it to her. "It wasn't like this when I saw it," she said. Hating to contradict her, I said, "Well, it was like that when I got it." "Huh," she said, head pointed at her crosslegged lap, where she was scraping at the tape with a short fingernail. I gazed at her bare knees. She repeated her claim. I, yet more painfully reluctant, repeated mine. "Huh, well," she said, "you know what?" Julie held up a round plastic cover. The CD still lay in the other half. Embarrassed but not mortified, I managed a good laugh at myself and took everything back from her and to my desk. She followed to show me the damage she had meant for me to repair. The damage was obvious; I didn't have to be shown, but she wasn't Mary Lou. I didn't shout her away.
I felt better--sometimes I think that all I really want is for her to talk to me--but the glasses still came off again and remained so till after lunch.
As last Thursday, Julie and I were on the desk at six. Knowing since a peek at the schedule the night before, I pondered strategy. I wanted desperately to get another rise out of her somehow, if only by ironically, letting her know I wouldn't be bothering her that hour. But part of me also wanted to passively spite her by not talking to her at all. Of course, that wouldn't work. It's probably what she would want. She never seems craven for conversation. But the "Library Card Challenge" took the strategy out my hands. The line to the circ desk reached nearly to Children's the entire hour as we registered one kid after another for cards. I was angry the entire time for having my decision made moot on, likely, my only shot of the week.
Talked with Stacey at her place after work. She confirmed that she had needed a break from my obsession. I'm glad she was truthful with me about it. I hope I wasn't taxing last night and that I was a good listener. I told her something Tammy had told me about my desk rescue of Julie back in June: that it clued a few people in on my feelings for Julie. (Really, how could it not have?) Stacey told me Megan came to her afterwards and recounted the scene, amused and surprised that I could be so loud and demonstrative. The picture is gaining a deeper focus.
So I was already besieged by neuroses armed to the teeth when I turned the corner of my desk and reflexively glanced down the row to the last desk. Every day Julie is more entrancingly beautiful than the day before. It seems almost a taunt. She was wearing a sleeveless, black-print dress. I was lost. The schedule said shelving at the top of the hour. The carts were all nearly empty. A discharge cart needed emptying. I started toward it, but its proximity to Julie, a desk away, might as well have been my head in the lion's mouth. I backed away, my mind a riot, and fled the workroom with the heels of my hands against my temples. A tour of the hallway was no relief. I resolved to grab a cart and escape into the stacks pronto.
I took the fiction. It was the heaviest cart, but still not half-full. And though not half-sorted, either, it didn't take long (enough) to empty. With blinders on, I returned, sat at my desk to repair a small stack of books. The end of the day seemed impossibly far away. I took off my glasses, squeezed the bridge of my nose. It occurred to me then that if I couldn't see I couldn't see Julie. Three of the books were goners; I took them to the second discharge counter to send them on their way, leaving my glasses behind. Mike was at the first station. "Did you get a ride in?" he asked. "Yeah. But I wish I'd come in on my own. I already feel like leaving." "You don't look like you're feeling well." "Oh, it's not physical; it's emotional." "Well, let me know if you want to talk about it." "Sure. Thanks."
Last in my stack was a book/CD Julie had given me the day before. "A present for you," she'd said, handing it to me. "But it's not my birthday yet," I'd replied, stinging myself with the lame response. The block and front board were separated, but I noticed a piece of tape across the back of the CD inset in the board. I replaced my glasses (I didn't want her to ask; I would've told her) and strolled to her desk. "Julie." "Yes?" She removed her headphones. "Did you notice this when you gave it to me yesterday?" I handed it to her. "It wasn't like this when I saw it," she said. Hating to contradict her, I said, "Well, it was like that when I got it." "Huh," she said, head pointed at her crosslegged lap, where she was scraping at the tape with a short fingernail. I gazed at her bare knees. She repeated her claim. I, yet more painfully reluctant, repeated mine. "Huh, well," she said, "you know what?" Julie held up a round plastic cover. The CD still lay in the other half. Embarrassed but not mortified, I managed a good laugh at myself and took everything back from her and to my desk. She followed to show me the damage she had meant for me to repair. The damage was obvious; I didn't have to be shown, but she wasn't Mary Lou. I didn't shout her away.
I felt better--sometimes I think that all I really want is for her to talk to me--but the glasses still came off again and remained so till after lunch.
As last Thursday, Julie and I were on the desk at six. Knowing since a peek at the schedule the night before, I pondered strategy. I wanted desperately to get another rise out of her somehow, if only by ironically, letting her know I wouldn't be bothering her that hour. But part of me also wanted to passively spite her by not talking to her at all. Of course, that wouldn't work. It's probably what she would want. She never seems craven for conversation. But the "Library Card Challenge" took the strategy out my hands. The line to the circ desk reached nearly to Children's the entire hour as we registered one kid after another for cards. I was angry the entire time for having my decision made moot on, likely, my only shot of the week.
Talked with Stacey at her place after work. She confirmed that she had needed a break from my obsession. I'm glad she was truthful with me about it. I hope I wasn't taxing last night and that I was a good listener. I told her something Tammy had told me about my desk rescue of Julie back in June: that it clued a few people in on my feelings for Julie. (Really, how could it not have?) Stacey told me Megan came to her afterwards and recounted the scene, amused and surprised that I could be so loud and demonstrative. The picture is gaining a deeper focus.
A Cannonball into the Kiddy Pool or a Pebble in the Ocean? (10/19/08 Sunday)*
Hinckley brought up a point yesterday that might help me right my ship. He's been re-reading the blog, and he noticed a two-week period from the end of June in which I exhibited a strong confidence in my efforts and the likelihood of their desired results. He said I have to find a way to get back to that. The difference, though, I told him, is that I had a goal then; that now there wasn't a rainbow and pot or a tunnel to find the light at the end of. I tracked down the entries of which he spoke and was amazed at the confidence exuded. After reading them, though, I told him, "I figured it would come down to an irony." "How so?" "All the time I spent trying not to strategize, and what was I doing then but strategizing? I hate scripting my actions." "What you need to find is a happy medium." A recent self-admonishment, of course, but it always seems wiser when coming from a voice on the outside of my head. The question remains, though: What is my goal now? I've said I want to get to know Julie and for her to get to know me, but I'm finding that more than difficult. I think of her "two places to get to know a person" and I feel resentment at having to play that game--her game. I can't play it. I can't believe I'm getting anywhere with small talk, and that's all the talk there is. She has the ball and won't send it back. No, it's my game I have to play if anything's to get done, and I've already started playing it. The no-pussyfooting challenge is not going unheeded. You remember me saying way back when that what I really wanted was for everyone to know? Well, I've already taken steps. There was Tammy the other day; yesterday, it was Bethany.
On the desk I asked Bethany if she remembered me telling her about my "big crush." She did. "Well, " I said, "it's on someone here. She doesn't feel the same way, but she knows how I feel." I didn't tell her who it was, and she didn't ask, if not because she didn't have to, at least in deference to my privacy.
Another effort has been a somewhat indifferent discretion toward exposure of the blog, bringing it up at my desk during my lunch or on the circ desk. Yesterday, I "forgot" to clear the history before I was relieved at the desk. It was Julie who relieved me, though. It's not her who I want to find out that way. She didn't. (Or did she? Would even that be enough to get her to talk to me?) I'm sure a few people have seen the screen over my shoulder, the title there readable at a glance. There is probably no one else I could tell outright who would both care and not tell the world. This has to be subtle, a groundswell.
So, the goal? I'm still not sure, except to have fun finding out. I'm even developing a side project: I'm putting Brother Cadfael to a surreptitious task. Eventually, Julie will get her books back. But inside each one will be a three-by-five notecard with a question or comment on it--for example, "I want to climb your walls, not tear them down" or "You fascinate me with your mystery, the depths of your concealment, the Julie you hide and protect." Twenty of them--not all written yet--for twenty books. The thickness of the card will ensure its discovery.
Honestly, whatever I'm ultimately trying to do, I don't want it to end--not, anyway, without a friendly resolution. Hurt as I feel, it's my hurt. Julie didn't inflict it. The greater hurt for me would be to hurt Julie. This has been good for me. Julie has been the inspiration for every word, every personal discovery, pleasurable or painful--but all indispensable--along this bumpy, curvy, hilly, inky road, and I hate to think of trying to follow it without her light.
*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
Hoping for an "accidental" discovery of your blog, I know how that goes. I'm always checking to see who is reading mine and where they are from, etc.
Sounds like you've identified some positive self-discovery from your feelings about Julie. I felt the same way about my own love. It has become more clear to me what I want, what I don't want, the passion I've been missing in my life.
On the desk I asked Bethany if she remembered me telling her about my "big crush." She did. "Well, " I said, "it's on someone here. She doesn't feel the same way, but she knows how I feel." I didn't tell her who it was, and she didn't ask, if not because she didn't have to, at least in deference to my privacy.
Another effort has been a somewhat indifferent discretion toward exposure of the blog, bringing it up at my desk during my lunch or on the circ desk. Yesterday, I "forgot" to clear the history before I was relieved at the desk. It was Julie who relieved me, though. It's not her who I want to find out that way. She didn't. (Or did she? Would even that be enough to get her to talk to me?) I'm sure a few people have seen the screen over my shoulder, the title there readable at a glance. There is probably no one else I could tell outright who would both care and not tell the world. This has to be subtle, a groundswell.
So, the goal? I'm still not sure, except to have fun finding out. I'm even developing a side project: I'm putting Brother Cadfael to a surreptitious task. Eventually, Julie will get her books back. But inside each one will be a three-by-five notecard with a question or comment on it--for example, "I want to climb your walls, not tear them down" or "You fascinate me with your mystery, the depths of your concealment, the Julie you hide and protect." Twenty of them--not all written yet--for twenty books. The thickness of the card will ensure its discovery.
Honestly, whatever I'm ultimately trying to do, I don't want it to end--not, anyway, without a friendly resolution. Hurt as I feel, it's my hurt. Julie didn't inflict it. The greater hurt for me would be to hurt Julie. This has been good for me. Julie has been the inspiration for every word, every personal discovery, pleasurable or painful--but all indispensable--along this bumpy, curvy, hilly, inky road, and I hate to think of trying to follow it without her light.
*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
Hoping for an "accidental" discovery of your blog, I know how that goes. I'm always checking to see who is reading mine and where they are from, etc.
Sounds like you've identified some positive self-discovery from your feelings about Julie. I felt the same way about my own love. It has become more clear to me what I want, what I don't want, the passion I've been missing in my life.
Whyne (10/20/08 Monday)
If this is good for me, why am I so angry? Why do I sleep worse than ever? Why do I dread seeing Julie? Because I'm not satisfied. There is no resolution. Did she really think I could be satisfied with being a "great guy," with being allowed to "hang out" with her, with getting to "know" her only at work? What should I expect? What am I due? What does she owe me? Nothing, on all counts. Yet I can't accept it. Why? My emotional investment? I can't step back. I can't find my life. Nothing is mine anymore. Every action, word and thought is given to Julie--all to no more effect than what feels like madness. I want to run away. But I won't. I can't. I can't do this to myself. And I can't not. Every day I want to call in sick. Every day at work I go crazy. Should it have been easy accepting her verdict? Should I have been able to flick that switch off and shut the door? How could those illogical words she spoke that Saturday help me do that and walk away? But would logic have helped?
If It Doesn't Fit, Force It (10/21/08 Tuesday)
I must insert my life between myself and Julie. What is that life? Where did it go? How can I again feel good about the thought of reading, something at which I've spent all of twenty minutes in the past week? What else do I have every day? Music has become a co-conspirator (enabler?) in this obsession; I can't listen to what doesn't remind me of Julie. The kids, even, can hardly distract me when they're over. And I think this has been good for me? If I could see personal growth along this way, I'd feel this was worth it; but I've read this journal over at least twice and seen the same questions in September that I asked in June. And the answers? Where are they? Are they in here? They are hidden well if they are here at all. I'm creating a puzzle I can't begin to solve.
One thing I've learned from the re-reading is to take a cue. After eating lunch today I stayed in the breakroom writing while waiting for Julie's arrival. I greeted her warmly, noted that she was on time and asked if she'd tutored. She said she had. She's usually late when she tutors. "You must have made record time," I said. She told me how the room had no clock and that the teacher--they teach as a group--usually does not inform them of the time. That was pretty much that, but it's a (re)start.
And I know where I'll go from there. If I'm to have any resolution I have to plow right in and ask for what I need to know, and that can only happen at the desk. I have to ask, say, "When you asked youself why I would ask to meet you at the coffee shop, what did you answer?" I also want to know if she had any foreshadowing of my intentions. If this is stepping on toes, she's going to have to keep dancing, because the music's not stopping. To make the emotional break from her I have to be unemotional, be dogged in pursuit of what will make the break for me. I don't see the possibility of hurting her as long as I harbor no bitterness, and to ensure that I have to have a plan. The plan is to have an agenda for every hour on the desk with Julie--a question, a theme of conversation--and pray for time to implement it. I'm confident Julie won't close me out. Though I am sure she'll continue guarding herself, I think that guard protects her emotionally when dealing with a candor such as I intend to implement. She will answer my questions, and I will slacken the line a bit but not let her off the hook. That will be the tricky part, following up her responses, hearing them from the viewpoint of logic and responding in kind. But no attacks, no forced retreats into the fortress. There has to be a meeting place, where chitchat and bald-faced candor can become a conversation, an engagement, a dialogue. I have to bring her there. God, what a thrill that would be! That would be a discovery!
But opportunity. When do I get that? The Library Card Challenge is on again this Thursday, so if the schedule hasn't changed we will be just as swamped and unable to interact. I'll have to bide my time, but it's those intervals that will be the most troublesome; I still have a great difficulty with the incidental moments of working with her. Every interaction is fraught with meaning--all mine, I'm sure--because all I want to talk about is her, yet she is safely insulated with coworkers, and I can barely look her in the eye, anyway. Another reason to get things out in the open. I won't say time is on my side, not till it and my patience kiss and make up, and their differences seem irreconcilable. But there's time for that, too, I suppose.
One thing I've learned from the re-reading is to take a cue. After eating lunch today I stayed in the breakroom writing while waiting for Julie's arrival. I greeted her warmly, noted that she was on time and asked if she'd tutored. She said she had. She's usually late when she tutors. "You must have made record time," I said. She told me how the room had no clock and that the teacher--they teach as a group--usually does not inform them of the time. That was pretty much that, but it's a (re)start.
And I know where I'll go from there. If I'm to have any resolution I have to plow right in and ask for what I need to know, and that can only happen at the desk. I have to ask, say, "When you asked youself why I would ask to meet you at the coffee shop, what did you answer?" I also want to know if she had any foreshadowing of my intentions. If this is stepping on toes, she's going to have to keep dancing, because the music's not stopping. To make the emotional break from her I have to be unemotional, be dogged in pursuit of what will make the break for me. I don't see the possibility of hurting her as long as I harbor no bitterness, and to ensure that I have to have a plan. The plan is to have an agenda for every hour on the desk with Julie--a question, a theme of conversation--and pray for time to implement it. I'm confident Julie won't close me out. Though I am sure she'll continue guarding herself, I think that guard protects her emotionally when dealing with a candor such as I intend to implement. She will answer my questions, and I will slacken the line a bit but not let her off the hook. That will be the tricky part, following up her responses, hearing them from the viewpoint of logic and responding in kind. But no attacks, no forced retreats into the fortress. There has to be a meeting place, where chitchat and bald-faced candor can become a conversation, an engagement, a dialogue. I have to bring her there. God, what a thrill that would be! That would be a discovery!
But opportunity. When do I get that? The Library Card Challenge is on again this Thursday, so if the schedule hasn't changed we will be just as swamped and unable to interact. I'll have to bide my time, but it's those intervals that will be the most troublesome; I still have a great difficulty with the incidental moments of working with her. Every interaction is fraught with meaning--all mine, I'm sure--because all I want to talk about is her, yet she is safely insulated with coworkers, and I can barely look her in the eye, anyway. Another reason to get things out in the open. I won't say time is on my side, not till it and my patience kiss and make up, and their differences seem irreconcilable. But there's time for that, too, I suppose.
No, That's Just the Flames of Hell (10/22/08 Wednesday)
Purpose. Resolution. Full circle. How far I've come. How far I've yet to go. Is that, actually, a light I see? Funny: To get what I want now is to lose what I really wanted. Irony--what could be crueler? Or could this resolution bring about the preferred resolution? Even the cynic in me doesn't want to see me hurt by that kind of hopefulness. Besides, it's irony in control of my life; irony decides what I'm to have. It would not give me what does not satisfy itself, only what will elicit from me a smirk of perverse appreciation for its power over me. It's my God, and I'm stuck with it. How quickly I move from resolve to resignation! They cannot be that far removed from one another. To resolve to do something is to be confident of its outcome. That confidence sees the outcome and is satisfied, becomes happily complacent. Resigned.
And Who Knows What the Hell the Name of the Game Is! (10/22/08 Wednesday)
I've never felt more desperately alone. I'm staring into that chasm, and I'm ready to step into the void. There's bound to be peace there. I don't want to give up on Julie. I can't admit what I know--that she'll never feel anything for me. Dammit, why do I have to feel anything for her? Why does she make it seem so goddamned easy? Why can't I take this like a fucking man? Because I'm not a man. I'm just a person out of his mind with frustration and bitterness because he can't have what he deserves and has no control over getting it. Women hold all the cards and the rule book, too. Nobody tell me about fairness!
Now with Moebius Loop-de-Loops! (10/26/08 Sunday)
There is a new resolve, a fairer and more final resolve, not a cry-wolf resolve. Not a cute, passive, ironically hopeful resolve.
Julie will get her books back. Julie will not be grilled at the desk. The books will have no cards in them. There will be a letter of sorts, a long statement, actually, at the bottom of the "pretty gift bag". The tone of this statement will be unenmotional but not passive; not accusatory or defensive; respectful, not hopeful. Resigned? No, but not expectant. Questions, but no obligation to answer. The basket will be placed on her doorstep and I will turn my back and walk away, if with great reluctance and with a monumental force of will suppressing my urge to turn around. My statement will be that force, so it must be strong and complete, as strong as Julie's fortress, only not a defense. I will not push an agenda nor ever after do so. There will be no pity, for either of us, only respect.
But (here we go again), what do I hope to accomplish? I want to give Julie the basket and let her do whatever she likes with it; relieve the stress for her on the desk wondering how I'll embarrass her next. What will it do for me?--that is, that no other strategy has done for me. Can I really expect it to help me place some emotional distance between us a work? Or, rather, since she's achieved that already--indeed, never had to--can I hope to work with her without anxiety, look at her without longing, hear her voice without the knife in my gut? It's a giant order, even if I say eveything I need to say the way I want to say it and ask all the questions it's fair to ask, because Julie, I'm fairly certain, will not respond--to me. I will dangle. What will knowing she's read this letter do for--or to--me? Leave me suspended in hope, likely; not at all satisfied with having cleanly expressed myself. Here come the expectations!
I felt good when I began writing today. The roller coaster rides are getting faster.
Julie will get her books back. Julie will not be grilled at the desk. The books will have no cards in them. There will be a letter of sorts, a long statement, actually, at the bottom of the "pretty gift bag". The tone of this statement will be unenmotional but not passive; not accusatory or defensive; respectful, not hopeful. Resigned? No, but not expectant. Questions, but no obligation to answer. The basket will be placed on her doorstep and I will turn my back and walk away, if with great reluctance and with a monumental force of will suppressing my urge to turn around. My statement will be that force, so it must be strong and complete, as strong as Julie's fortress, only not a defense. I will not push an agenda nor ever after do so. There will be no pity, for either of us, only respect.
But (here we go again), what do I hope to accomplish? I want to give Julie the basket and let her do whatever she likes with it; relieve the stress for her on the desk wondering how I'll embarrass her next. What will it do for me?--that is, that no other strategy has done for me. Can I really expect it to help me place some emotional distance between us a work? Or, rather, since she's achieved that already--indeed, never had to--can I hope to work with her without anxiety, look at her without longing, hear her voice without the knife in my gut? It's a giant order, even if I say eveything I need to say the way I want to say it and ask all the questions it's fair to ask, because Julie, I'm fairly certain, will not respond--to me. I will dangle. What will knowing she's read this letter do for--or to--me? Leave me suspended in hope, likely; not at all satisfied with having cleanly expressed myself. Here come the expectations!
I felt good when I began writing today. The roller coaster rides are getting faster.
With a Declaration of Undying Love, No Doubt (10/28/08 Tuesday)
The letter's coming very slowly. Here's about as far as I got with the first try:
Jumbled and pathetic, barely restrained from accusation. The second attempt is, so far, more naturally restrained and rational. It very nearly has a structure. Notecard, marginal scribbles, even recorded "notes to self" litter the sofa when I'm home, and the breakroom table at lunch at work. I'm impatient to get it done (I have a dread she'll ask for the books before I can give them to her), but determined to do it right. Those are only two of the warring factions. Hinckley says he's written one of these and it wasn't till he stopped trying--around the eighth draft--that he was able to pour it out exactly how he wanted it. We were interrupted before I could ask him how the recipient responded.
It's funny, Julie: I almost have to agree with you. I wasn't attracted to you when I followed you outside at lunch our first day at Twin Hickory. I thought you were too young! (And you call yourself old!) No, I wanted to talk about Scotland. It was the first and last time you heard me babble. But I came to know you, at work, and the more I did the more attractive you became. How much more can I know you there? How much more attractive can you be to me?Just as I must accept your lack of reciprocation, I believe you have little choice but to accept that getting over you will take me awhile--not the least because I don't really want to. Seeing you five days out of the week doesn't help, either. My fascination with you did not end during those first ten minutes at the coffee shop; it grew. You wondered aloud what I could find fascinating about you. I wish I could have expressed it. It's difficult even now, after so much reflection upon it. You fascinate me with your mystery, the depths of your concealment, the Julie you hide and protect. At the coffee shop I'd hoped you'd lower you drawbridge. I'm sorry I tried to batter it down. I didn't mean to try to storm your fortress; I just wanted to scale the wall and look at your garden. How does the sun reach it? I wondered. Another reason giving you up will not be easy is that I'm a one-choice man. I take my time making up my mind, but when I've decided what I want I'm sure of it and am resistant to so much as consider an alternative, much less settle for it. But I could be wrong this time.
Jumbled and pathetic, barely restrained from accusation. The second attempt is, so far, more naturally restrained and rational. It very nearly has a structure. Notecard, marginal scribbles, even recorded "notes to self" litter the sofa when I'm home, and the breakroom table at lunch at work. I'm impatient to get it done (I have a dread she'll ask for the books before I can give them to her), but determined to do it right. Those are only two of the warring factions. Hinckley says he's written one of these and it wasn't till he stopped trying--around the eighth draft--that he was able to pour it out exactly how he wanted it. We were interrupted before I could ask him how the recipient responded.
Probably, If I Get It at Least as Drunk (10/29/08 Tuesday)
The latest draft has come much more easily, naturally and more confidently. I've found the voice; now I'm waiting for the words. The letter could almost end where it is, at about five hundred words, I've so sharply expressed myself; but I know there's more to say, and I want to give it time to surface in my mind. Confidence of purpose should aid my patience.
I have not been living in the minutiae of a Julie-day. Though I'm still hopeful of impressing her, as Tom Sawyer to Becky Thatcher, it's become more of a vestigial reflex than a conscious effort. When I discover the reflex I grimace and slap it away. My last conscious effort to elicit anything from Julie was made last Thursday, the night I lost my desk hour with Julie: I checked out a DVD to Inhouse for Julie to fix, and on the bottom of the slip, the part concealed in the case, I wrote "Fascinating!" Of course, there was no reaction. The letter will be the last of that sort of thing, and though I would hope it made some impression on her, I wouldn't expect to ever know what that was. Will knowing that I did what I had to do and did it thoroughly be enough to convince my heart that I'm over Julie?
I have not been living in the minutiae of a Julie-day. Though I'm still hopeful of impressing her, as Tom Sawyer to Becky Thatcher, it's become more of a vestigial reflex than a conscious effort. When I discover the reflex I grimace and slap it away. My last conscious effort to elicit anything from Julie was made last Thursday, the night I lost my desk hour with Julie: I checked out a DVD to Inhouse for Julie to fix, and on the bottom of the slip, the part concealed in the case, I wrote "Fascinating!" Of course, there was no reaction. The letter will be the last of that sort of thing, and though I would hope it made some impression on her, I wouldn't expect to ever know what that was. Will knowing that I did what I had to do and did it thoroughly be enough to convince my heart that I'm over Julie?
And If I Weren't Trying to Assemble It in the Dark (10/30/08 Thursday)
I may not be convinced of the letter's power to flush these emotional toxins, but I feel a more dire need than ever to complete it and give it a chance. Just when I think the torture can't get worse, I show up for work. I can't talk to Julie, I can barely look at her. Every day I determine to change that, but I look at her and can't believe that she's become yet more radiant than the day before, and that's all I want to say to her, so I'm struck dumb. If I ever had a grip, it's a flea sneeze from slipping clean off. I feel stupid on a gargantuan scale for being so overwrought over someone who feels nothing for me. I told Stacey tonight that I wished this was a real breakup, so I'd know the emotional investment hadn't been entirely mine. She said, "Unrequited love is always harder to deal with than breaking up from true love. Don't you think?" "I wouldn't know. I've never been in love." That saddened her terribly, which deepened my woe, but touched me, grasped me, pulled me from deeper despair. Sometimes I wonder how I still have friends, as taxing as I can be and so deeply in debt to them that I can't imagine repayment.
But the letter. Though it seems to be taking solid, cohesive shape, I feel I'm beginning to lose my voice to sentimentality and hope for what I know can never be mine.
I seem to be reaching, almost pleading, by the end, as if I really were talking to her, looking in her eyes for a sign of emotional life. I'm beginning to think it's not a bad thing. It's coming from a passion and genuine feeling. I have to let her know my feelings, as long as I don't ask for the same back--as long as I don't actually ask for anything at all of her that I truly expect her to answer. I'm feeling very far from finished, but much closer to having all the pieces laid out in front of me. Putting them together would be easy enough if I could just see them all and be sure none were missing.
But the letter. Though it seems to be taking solid, cohesive shape, I feel I'm beginning to lose my voice to sentimentality and hope for what I know can never be mine.
Here are your books. If you asked why I was returning them, I probably only responded with a practical truth: that I felt I'd had them long enough and thought you might like them back--something like that. Another truth is that it allowed me to drop this letter on your doorstep, ring the bell and walk away.
I'm not writing to plead my case. I'm just talking to you, perhaps the way I'd hoped to at the coffee shop, only, this time, don't feel compelled to talk back. I'll still likely ask a lot of questions, but I'm only planting seeds; whatever grows will grow. Neither am I trying to dissuade you from your position. If anything, I'm trying to dissuade me from mine. That will take some doing. Just as I must accept your lack of reciprocation for my feelings for you, please appreciate that getting over you might take me a while. Seeing you five days out of the week doesn't help, but neither does being a one-choice man: I take my time making up my mind, but when I've determined what
I want I'm sure of it and am resistant to so much as consider an alternative, much less settle for it. But I could be wrong this time.
Do you remember me telling you that the trip to the coffee shop had been much longer than the literal miles and time? I also said I might tell you about it if you ever changed your mind. Well, that likelihood seems but a dim gleam in the eye of hope, so we'll stick a thumb out at the point where I asked you to meet me for tea. That should get us a ride to the first time you said, "I wondered why you asked me to meet you here." What I've been wondering since is how you addressed that wondering. Did "Julie, you fascinate me, and I'd like to get to know you better in a way I can't at work" take you entirely by surprise? If so, I hadn't been quite the Tom Sawyer to your Becky Thatcher that I thought I'd been.
When you said, "If I change my mind you'll be the first to know," I responded, "You know, I don't think you would." I'm sorry. That was unfair. It came from a bitter place. I'm sorry, too, for the stress I caused you that day. When you wouldn't lower your drawbridge, I tried to batter it down. But I only wanted in to look at your garden. How does the sun reach it?
What I won't apologize for is embarrassing you--not that I intended to do that (the first time). I was trying to strike a spark, and the fire in your cheeks proved me successful. (You can't take that from me!) But nothing I've ever said to you was flattery. Every word was how I felt (even about your bin-packing). I am truly fascinated with you--your beauty, your mystery, the depths you conceal, the Julie you hide and protect. I can, in time and in the ever-growing, obscuring face of reality, give up the idea of "us," but I'll never stop wondering about the Julie I'll never know. Be assured, though, that I will never again blow on your fire. I cannot assure you, however that I will not steal glances your way or outright stare at you. But it will be as at a work of art, something to appreciate, marvel at, ponder the meaning of. If it discomfits you, would you let me know?
I seem to be reaching, almost pleading, by the end, as if I really were talking to her, looking in her eyes for a sign of emotional life. I'm beginning to think it's not a bad thing. It's coming from a passion and genuine feeling. I have to let her know my feelings, as long as I don't ask for the same back--as long as I don't actually ask for anything at all of her that I truly expect her to answer. I'm feeling very far from finished, but much closer to having all the pieces laid out in front of me. Putting them together would be easy enough if I could just see them all and be sure none were missing.
Well, Okay--Maybe a Sticky Note (10/31/08 Friday)
I transcribed a clean copy of the latest draft to hear again the words in my head and get a running start at the next paragraph. Then I stared out the window with slitted eyes and beetled brow for the better part of half an hour. I looked again at the last paragraph. Slowly, a grin both humble and smug stretched my face. I turned back to the first page and wrote at the top "The Work of Art and the Piece of Work." Then I had a good laugh, and I'm still having it. There it is in a nutshell, the definition of this entire endeavor--the attitude, the ridiculous futility, the irrational hope. The title was all of my original output of nearly three hours, yet I felt as productive afterwards as if I'd filled a book.
Web Design (11/01/08 Sunday)
I started off yesterday morning (an hour-and-a-half after my alarm) with the realization that I was going about this letter backwards: I was too concerned with structure--following one paragraph with the logical next paragraph. I have been passing over ideas because I couldn't foresee their paragraph potential; a sentence is a good start, I'd think, but what's after that? The better idea is to get all the ideas--sentences, scraps, words--onto paper, then cut and paste and embellish. That's a strength I've overlooked, my ability to construct a concrete whole from bits of chipped stone. Forget whatever attitude might imbue the words or what ulterior meaning they may be fraught with. It'll all come clean and nice in the wash. Easily said. Do I scrap what I've written? The title reflects an attitude that the letter doesn't deliver. The letter has said much of what I need to say, but seems to be holding back, a kind of dishonesty by omission. Can I have fun with this and still have my say? I have to have fun, or I'll come off pathetic or righteous.
For fun, I took the picture Gay-Lynn sent me to the drug store and had some quick prints done--two 4 x6, three wallets. One wallet is, well, in my wallet, another hiding behind the picture of Gillian on my over-desk storage cabinet, and the other I plan to tape to the front of my front fender, like a flat, rear-facing maidenhead. Yesterday, when Bethany and I were the only two in the workroom, I bade her take a peek behind Gillian. She did and gasped, "I knew it! I wanted to ask you, but I didn't think you wanted me to." "Are you kidding? I was dying for you to ask me!"
Hinckley saw on the schedule that he and I had been separated from the desk hour we usually get together on the weekend and was unhappy, to say the least. What concerned me was the portent it kicked into my mind: Would I be separated from Julie, as well? My thudding heart was preparing for outrage. My name was on the bottom. I had a desk hour with Sofiya at ten. I took a deep breath and scanned across my line. I stopped at a second "D" at two o'clock and started climbing up the column to find my partner. I breathed again: Julie.
True to my word, I did not badger Julie. I asked her about her web-design class and let her talk about it, trying to follow with cogent questions, not expecting (but still hoping for, though not getting) any questions from her. It was a good hour, if not in the way I'd have preferred--but those hours will never be. I finally see that I am no more than Mike to Julie--someone she has little or nothing to say to. I'm still jealous of the ease at which she'll pick a conversation with Hinckley--or anyone else not an introvert (except Jennifer). Would it help to know why I'm jealous? (I'm not helping my attitude at all. I feel miles away from writing that letter.)
How seriously have I considered that there really isn't more to Julie than she presents? Of course, my feelings for her have both imbued her character with a rich depth and virtually obliterated my objectivity. So the answer is, hardly at all. The way is beginning to look clearer, though. Not seeing these depths is a better reason for not believing in their existence than for making them real and discoverable. But why am I talking reason? Face it, I'm not over her. Is the letter going to help me make that break, or do I have to make the break before I can write the letter? Neither is anywhere near completion.
For fun, I took the picture Gay-Lynn sent me to the drug store and had some quick prints done--two 4 x6, three wallets. One wallet is, well, in my wallet, another hiding behind the picture of Gillian on my over-desk storage cabinet, and the other I plan to tape to the front of my front fender, like a flat, rear-facing maidenhead. Yesterday, when Bethany and I were the only two in the workroom, I bade her take a peek behind Gillian. She did and gasped, "I knew it! I wanted to ask you, but I didn't think you wanted me to." "Are you kidding? I was dying for you to ask me!"
Hinckley saw on the schedule that he and I had been separated from the desk hour we usually get together on the weekend and was unhappy, to say the least. What concerned me was the portent it kicked into my mind: Would I be separated from Julie, as well? My thudding heart was preparing for outrage. My name was on the bottom. I had a desk hour with Sofiya at ten. I took a deep breath and scanned across my line. I stopped at a second "D" at two o'clock and started climbing up the column to find my partner. I breathed again: Julie.
True to my word, I did not badger Julie. I asked her about her web-design class and let her talk about it, trying to follow with cogent questions, not expecting (but still hoping for, though not getting) any questions from her. It was a good hour, if not in the way I'd have preferred--but those hours will never be. I finally see that I am no more than Mike to Julie--someone she has little or nothing to say to. I'm still jealous of the ease at which she'll pick a conversation with Hinckley--or anyone else not an introvert (except Jennifer). Would it help to know why I'm jealous? (I'm not helping my attitude at all. I feel miles away from writing that letter.)
How seriously have I considered that there really isn't more to Julie than she presents? Of course, my feelings for her have both imbued her character with a rich depth and virtually obliterated my objectivity. So the answer is, hardly at all. The way is beginning to look clearer, though. Not seeing these depths is a better reason for not believing in their existence than for making them real and discoverable. But why am I talking reason? Face it, I'm not over her. Is the letter going to help me make that break, or do I have to make the break before I can write the letter? Neither is anywhere near completion.
I'll Have to Take My Socks Off for This One (11/03/08 Monday)
So, here's the deal now: This letter is entirely self-serving, right? I'm writing to someone who doesn't care about stuff she doesn't care about, so who else could this be for but me? Then, how is this even serving me? What purpose does it have? Not to recriminate or whine or defend myself or plead my case or beg her change her mind. What good do I expect it to do me? Am I getting something off my chest? How do I go about that without also doing any of the above? Remember "no pussyfooting"? I have to tell it straight and raw and with plenty of self-deprecation, to show I'm not that hang-dog, pathetic guy who can't let go of a lost cause. In other words, lie, right? Because I'm nowhere near being able to pull that off. But I can't last long in my current state of sleep-deprived tension. Julie has never lost a wink over me; that's an easy bet. So why am I killing myself over someone who feels nothing for me? (And how many times have I asked that?)
Pretential Logic (11/05/08 Wednesday)
I've begun a new draft; one, I hope, without deference or flattery or pretence of the absence of either--for I realized that I was still, in a way pleading my case and holding out vain hope. This letter is about me, and I won't pretend otherwise. Nor will I pretend that Julie might care what I have to say; it's the only way to be comfortable writing the letter; and if I can't be comfortable I can't write it to my satisfaction, which is all that matters immediately. In all the other drafts, notes, fits and starts, I have addressed all I meant to, but haven't done so in the right way. I don't know for sure that this new way is the right way, but it's righter.
Righter? I think so. Maybe a little hopeful, a touch flattering; but I do still harbor hope, in my heart if not in my head--that can't be helped, must be left to run its course. The Wise Man is running the show. The Fool can do as the Fool does and be relegated to the comic relief.
I got a desk hour with Julie yesterday. I asked her about the new Reginald Hill she had plucked the day before. She hadn't started it because of a couple others ahead of it. I asked her about those--Margery Allingham and Jonathan Kellerman--and asked if she'd read Val McDermid. (This whole conversation was going almost exactly as I'd mapped it out in my head at lunch.) She had, and had checked out the first season of Wire in the Blood but hadn't watched it before having to return it. I had just watched it. We talked about Robson Green--we'd both loved Touching Evil. I was careful not to let the conversation wander to Cadfael; I didn't want her wondering when I'd give them back or asking how many I'd actually read (four, but if she asked, five--it sounds better). She never asked anything of me. I wonder to what degree interest in her registers with her and what, if any, meaning it has to her. I talk to her in the interest of getting to know her but, also, consequently, in piquing something likewise. I think that that's a very tall order, though. If I could peel off the veneer of selfish motive, the genuineness of my efforts might be more plain. If only my efforts were genuine.
Here are your books. If you asked why I was returning them, I probably said something like, "I thought I'd had them long enough and thought you might like them back." The whole truth is that it allowed me to drop this on your doorstep, ring the bell and walk away.
Don't be alarmed. This is no proclamation of undying love or anything close to that--no greeting card singing "You Are My Sunshine". It's a totally self-serving letter that, as far as I can tell, serves no worthy purpose whatsoever. You don't even have to read it; I can pretend you did. I don't expect a response, though I'll ask a lot of questions. (I'll be nicer than I was at the coffee shop.) I won't challenge you or try to dissuade you from your position. If anything I'm trying to dissuade me from mine. Of course I accept how you feel about me, but disengaging myself from my attraction to you will take some doing. This was never an attraction of convenience, so it won't be conveniently put aside. The bottom line is, you still fascinate me and your beauty is no less striking than ever.
That said, I won't apologize for embarrassing you. I was only trying to strike a spark, and the fire in your cheeks proved me successful. (You can't take that from me!) Nothing I've ever said to you, though, was flattery. Every word was how I felt (even about the bin-packing). I don't mean to make you uncomfortable, but it's hard not to speak what I feel. I'd like to promise that I won't ever again blow on your embers, but what the head decrees the heart can't always abide. I'll have to stare at you now and then, too--that just goes with the territory.
Take a ride with me here in my time machine back to the coffee shop on the day of Hazel's birth. Did my proclamation really take you by surprise? When you wondered to yourself why I asked you to meet me there, what did you surmise? What were your expectations of that day? Have you since reflected? Have you, in retrospection, seen "signs" of my attraction? And all this time I thought I'd been Tom Sawyer--walking on my hands and punching the other boys--to your Becky Thatcher.
Righter? I think so. Maybe a little hopeful, a touch flattering; but I do still harbor hope, in my heart if not in my head--that can't be helped, must be left to run its course. The Wise Man is running the show. The Fool can do as the Fool does and be relegated to the comic relief.
I got a desk hour with Julie yesterday. I asked her about the new Reginald Hill she had plucked the day before. She hadn't started it because of a couple others ahead of it. I asked her about those--Margery Allingham and Jonathan Kellerman--and asked if she'd read Val McDermid. (This whole conversation was going almost exactly as I'd mapped it out in my head at lunch.) She had, and had checked out the first season of Wire in the Blood but hadn't watched it before having to return it. I had just watched it. We talked about Robson Green--we'd both loved Touching Evil. I was careful not to let the conversation wander to Cadfael; I didn't want her wondering when I'd give them back or asking how many I'd actually read (four, but if she asked, five--it sounds better). She never asked anything of me. I wonder to what degree interest in her registers with her and what, if any, meaning it has to her. I talk to her in the interest of getting to know her but, also, consequently, in piquing something likewise. I think that that's a very tall order, though. If I could peel off the veneer of selfish motive, the genuineness of my efforts might be more plain. If only my efforts were genuine.
Anything But Blue Serge (11/06/08 Thursday)
A good day. And a good week so far, in an ironically Julie-centric way. The rope of emotional attachment has frayed considerably. The irony is in having accomplished this by striving more ardently to get to know her. I've had to put myself aside somewhat, try to forget how I (once) felt toward her. She still, very much, fascinates me, but now I want to know her, not simply search for validation of a misplaced affection. Yet I find I have not given up hope. There's a kind of reality to this hope, though, not of its fruition, but of its essential truth and necessity. That may be as well as I'll ever be able to explain it, but it's right. Stripped of what I wanted, what's left of this attraction may be what I actually need. I can't say now whether it's been either my heart or my head guiding this endeavor. It's been both, but in an almost evil manner, as if in league against my soul. The dawning reality to this hope is the dominating emergence of a unified control over this poisonous collusion. I'm shocked at the extent of the manipulation of these forces, but nearly elated at the apparent triumph over them. I hedge my glee knowing the war's far from over, but I'm claiming more territory every day. It remains to be seen just what that territory is, but I can't question its value.
I've had significant time with Julie this week in both quantity and quality. I have both bided that time and made the most of it. I've been confident--truly confident, not arrogant. (I can hate myself later, if I still feel like it, for being the selfish ass all these months; I just can't indulge those feelings now.) We were on the desk together again today. Julie spoke first; I was in no hurry. "I suppose I should bring a cart out." I read the reluctance in her voice and laughed, then she laughed. She thought it might be a slow hour. Neither of us made a move to bring out the lease books. Tyger stopped by on his way up to the "village," chatted with us and left. I said to Julie, ignoring misgivings of her wondering what brought this to the front of my mind, "Did I see you in glasses a few weeks ago?" "Who, Tyger? I don't think so." "No. You." "Yeah, I guess you could have." And we talked about that until we were interrupted by work. When the patrons cleared I sat back down and stared ahead, into Children's, seeing nothing. Peripherally, I saw Julie's head turn toward me once or twice, but as I was in the first seat, she would have to look past me to see entering patrons. Maybe bored, she got up to check the event schedule under the register. "Pruning class tonight," I said. "Oh, is that tonight?" "Mm-hm," I replied, and barely hesitated, with the usual qualm but with highly unusual disregard of indiscretion, before saying, "So, why horticulture?" (Her degree, I'd found out at the coffee shop, with no little surprise.) "I don't know," she said, after some hesitation; then, as if she'd willed it, a patron walked up to her counter. Off the hook, I thought, because I considered the answer untrue. When the patron cleared--and it was a few minutes--I waited, determined not to press and confident I wouldn't need to. I was rewarded: "I was living with a boyfriend at the time, and he was into gardening, so I thought I'd try it." "And yet," I remarked, noting her casual tone and recalling the "personal mess" she mentioned in the coffee shop that drove her from Blacksburg and horticulture, "you went all the way with it." "Yeah, well, I still like it, but if I did it over again I'd probably have done something else." "What would you have done?" "Oh, I don't know, probably something in music or the arts." She would have studied voice or illustration, she said, when pressed, though how she would follow the learning professionally she had only a vague notion, a vestige of a dream. Then she muttered something in that way I've seen several times now, turning away and lowering her head, abashed at revealing herself. I didn't catch it, and as much as I wanted to know what she'd said, I, too, looked away and down, chuckling with her, feeling it would be insensitive of me to ask her to repeat the utterance, and tried to satisfy myself with at least understanding her tone and respecting her for the difficulty of the disclosure.
I bided my time, too, for her to ask me something of myself, but when it didn't happen, I didn't waste energy rueing it. I'm expecting it to happen--or maybe my confidence is stepping out of reality. I imagined, as I sat out there in silence, that the more time we have together the more comfortable each of us will be with the other. I can't tell how far Julie has to go in that respect, but I can't even see halfway from here. The next hour off the desk Tammy passed me on the way to posting Friday's schedule. She tapped it with a "V" and whispered, "Two times." Boy, I have to come up with more material.
I've had significant time with Julie this week in both quantity and quality. I have both bided that time and made the most of it. I've been confident--truly confident, not arrogant. (I can hate myself later, if I still feel like it, for being the selfish ass all these months; I just can't indulge those feelings now.) We were on the desk together again today. Julie spoke first; I was in no hurry. "I suppose I should bring a cart out." I read the reluctance in her voice and laughed, then she laughed. She thought it might be a slow hour. Neither of us made a move to bring out the lease books. Tyger stopped by on his way up to the "village," chatted with us and left. I said to Julie, ignoring misgivings of her wondering what brought this to the front of my mind, "Did I see you in glasses a few weeks ago?" "Who, Tyger? I don't think so." "No. You." "Yeah, I guess you could have." And we talked about that until we were interrupted by work. When the patrons cleared I sat back down and stared ahead, into Children's, seeing nothing. Peripherally, I saw Julie's head turn toward me once or twice, but as I was in the first seat, she would have to look past me to see entering patrons. Maybe bored, she got up to check the event schedule under the register. "Pruning class tonight," I said. "Oh, is that tonight?" "Mm-hm," I replied, and barely hesitated, with the usual qualm but with highly unusual disregard of indiscretion, before saying, "So, why horticulture?" (Her degree, I'd found out at the coffee shop, with no little surprise.) "I don't know," she said, after some hesitation; then, as if she'd willed it, a patron walked up to her counter. Off the hook, I thought, because I considered the answer untrue. When the patron cleared--and it was a few minutes--I waited, determined not to press and confident I wouldn't need to. I was rewarded: "I was living with a boyfriend at the time, and he was into gardening, so I thought I'd try it." "And yet," I remarked, noting her casual tone and recalling the "personal mess" she mentioned in the coffee shop that drove her from Blacksburg and horticulture, "you went all the way with it." "Yeah, well, I still like it, but if I did it over again I'd probably have done something else." "What would you have done?" "Oh, I don't know, probably something in music or the arts." She would have studied voice or illustration, she said, when pressed, though how she would follow the learning professionally she had only a vague notion, a vestige of a dream. Then she muttered something in that way I've seen several times now, turning away and lowering her head, abashed at revealing herself. I didn't catch it, and as much as I wanted to know what she'd said, I, too, looked away and down, chuckling with her, feeling it would be insensitive of me to ask her to repeat the utterance, and tried to satisfy myself with at least understanding her tone and respecting her for the difficulty of the disclosure.
I bided my time, too, for her to ask me something of myself, but when it didn't happen, I didn't waste energy rueing it. I'm expecting it to happen--or maybe my confidence is stepping out of reality. I imagined, as I sat out there in silence, that the more time we have together the more comfortable each of us will be with the other. I can't tell how far Julie has to go in that respect, but I can't even see halfway from here. The next hour off the desk Tammy passed me on the way to posting Friday's schedule. She tapped it with a "V" and whispered, "Two times." Boy, I have to come up with more material.
In Exchange for My Sanity, My Life and Six Months of Restful Sleep (11/08/08 Saturday)
I made no headway yesterday and made no effort to. I didn't want to raise Julie's suspicions. It was difficult, sitting there waiting for what I knew would never come, an initiation of conversation from Julie. That still irks me, I admit, but it doesn't irk me with anyone else. Of course, that's because I care about her and want her to care about me. It's just my ego hurting. Not much room for ego here, though.
The day before, during conversation on the desk, Julie lowered her head to let her hair fall before her face, then with both hands swept it back over forehead as she raised her head. Normally, her hair lies flat, but the sweep had folded back, into a wave. If I didn't gasp audibly, it was a miracle; and how I didn't scream, "Stop that!" could only be attributed to some kind cosmic control, because I all but lost my mind and my heart together at that moment of concentrated exudation of everything about her that has captivated me, lo, these agonizing months. Life seemed at its cruelest and most unfair. Instantly, I had stumbled back into that web from which I'd deluded myself I'd been extricated. The sleeping dog was kicked. That's how I'd tried to think of this crush, as a dog I could let lie. When I awoke yesterday morning, after only a few hours asleep, I thought, with a sense of liberation, that the crush was something of which I had to accept the existence--reason didn't create it, so reason wasn't going to make it go away. Obviously, now, I must also accept its unpredictable awakenings.
I may be only a paragraph away from finishing the letter--the note now, as it's so short and will contain no salutation and no sign-off. I have the last line, but I need a wind-down paragraph to bring it all together. But I have time. I've taken Monday and Wednesday off to bookend the Vereran's Day off Tuesday. Thursday, now, is the day I plan to give Julie her books back.
The day before, during conversation on the desk, Julie lowered her head to let her hair fall before her face, then with both hands swept it back over forehead as she raised her head. Normally, her hair lies flat, but the sweep had folded back, into a wave. If I didn't gasp audibly, it was a miracle; and how I didn't scream, "Stop that!" could only be attributed to some kind cosmic control, because I all but lost my mind and my heart together at that moment of concentrated exudation of everything about her that has captivated me, lo, these agonizing months. Life seemed at its cruelest and most unfair. Instantly, I had stumbled back into that web from which I'd deluded myself I'd been extricated. The sleeping dog was kicked. That's how I'd tried to think of this crush, as a dog I could let lie. When I awoke yesterday morning, after only a few hours asleep, I thought, with a sense of liberation, that the crush was something of which I had to accept the existence--reason didn't create it, so reason wasn't going to make it go away. Obviously, now, I must also accept its unpredictable awakenings.
I may be only a paragraph away from finishing the letter--the note now, as it's so short and will contain no salutation and no sign-off. I have the last line, but I need a wind-down paragraph to bring it all together. But I have time. I've taken Monday and Wednesday off to bookend the Vereran's Day off Tuesday. Thursday, now, is the day I plan to give Julie her books back.
Fender Off (11/10/08 Monday)
After an eleven-hour sleep and a ninety-minute dawdle, I left the apartment with just enough Cheerios in my system to get me to Stir Crazy. It wasn't until I'd sat down with my coffee and egg-and-cheese bagel that I realized the possible significance of where I'd come to finish the note to Julie. But I didn't consider it long; I had work to do. It took two large coffees (the second because it was free) and about a couple hours, but I finished the job and left for Carytown--Plan 9, more specifically, for Nilsson Schmilsson. (I settled for Son of Schmilsson.) I strolled slowly through Carytown, not eager to get home, enjoying being on the sidewalks and in the shops with other people. But there was no conversation, save with the stationer, from whom I bought some nice paper for the final transcription of the note, about the selling of his store after thirty years. He wants to retire, but the sale of the store must be strictly a "turnkey" transaction. (Thank god for coffee. How else would I ever initiate a conversation?) A few women initiated smiles and greetings. I felt attractive, despite a three-day, salt-and-pepper beard and a helmet-made hairdo. Another reason not to go home, where there was no one to make me feel good about myself.
As I sat in the coffee shop staring out the window a man walking by stopped to look at my bike. He lingered a long while before coming inside. I met his eyes, smiled and nodded. When he left again he took another look, then suddenly moved closer and bent over the front wheel. He straightened and half-turned to the window, a glint in his eye and grin on his face. He'd seen Julie on the front fender. In Carytown I parked in front of the shops, instead of, as usual, around the corner and out of foot traffic. The front wheel tipped away from the street as I locked it to a tree, and I left it like that, the better to display Julie to passing shoppers. Before leaving the bike I thumbed off a speck of dirt from her cheek.
I'll leave the note overnight, let the words settle on the page, then edit in earnest tomorrow. I want it ready to slip in the bag before Thursday morning.
As I sat in the coffee shop staring out the window a man walking by stopped to look at my bike. He lingered a long while before coming inside. I met his eyes, smiled and nodded. When he left again he took another look, then suddenly moved closer and bent over the front wheel. He straightened and half-turned to the window, a glint in his eye and grin on his face. He'd seen Julie on the front fender. In Carytown I parked in front of the shops, instead of, as usual, around the corner and out of foot traffic. The front wheel tipped away from the street as I locked it to a tree, and I left it like that, the better to display Julie to passing shoppers. Before leaving the bike I thumbed off a speck of dirt from her cheek.
I'll leave the note overnight, let the words settle on the page, then edit in earnest tomorrow. I want it ready to slip in the bag before Thursday morning.
I'm Going to Need a Bigger Seed (11/11/08 Tuesday)
The editing didn't take long--very little revising or excising, even on the new material. But it's been six hours since that was done, and I can't get down to transcribing a clean copy, the last preliminary draft. I'm looking at the end of something I don't want to see the end of; something that never actually started; something that's turrned out to be nothing more than a "project," an experiment, an exercise in futility. Twenty thousand words of neurotic tail-chasing--my own, that is. A failure. And will this even bring closure? Do I want closure? Do I really want the torture to end? This has been about so much more than Julie that the void of its absence could be more vast than it ever was before I laid eyes on her. Letting go of Julie is letting go of more than a hope or a dream. It's letting go of an inspiration, a meaning, a need. Where do I find those again?
But this is not a letting-go, is it? It's pulling-out-by-the-roots: I planted a seed, poked a hole in the soil, now I'm tearing a tree from the ground, leaving a crumbling maw.
But this is not a letting-go, is it? It's pulling-out-by-the-roots: I planted a seed, poked a hole in the soil, now I'm tearing a tree from the ground, leaving a crumbling maw.
Letter Go (11/12/08 Wednesday)*
The letter (yes, "letter," with salutation, closing, even postscript) is written, in the envelope, in the bag. I'm not pleased with the handwriting, a print constrained and stiff and, ultimately, sloppy, inconsistent in size and alignment--human, in other words. I even had to caret in a word, but by then--the last paragraph--I prefferred the conservation of an expensive sheet of paper to the stress of perfection. I know that I will be judged by my handwriting as well as by my words--Julie's handwriting is almost mechanically calligraphic, even at its most casual--but I'm pretending not to care. Yet part of me wants to rewrite it in my natural script. It may yet happen, expensive paper or no.
But I said what I wanted to say how I wanted to say it--three weeks and a couple dozen sheets of paper later. Sadly, some things don't even feel true any longer. How much does she really fascinate me now? How much hope do I really harbor? Do I honestly believe that her concealment has depths? That doubt could simply be bitterness, an artificial distancing. I am so tangle in my wants and needs that I don't know which is which anymore. The wants are emotional, the needs practical--or is it that easy? No, I can't find the separation there, either. Is it any wonder I'm confused? I've written a breakup letter to someone I never dated, for god's sake! Could that be a teensy bit more pathetic?
I tried to rewrite the letter in cursive, but I couldn't write the first word without screwing it up--twice. More paper trashed. For what?
*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
I understand some of how you feel in your letter. It's so hard not to tell her how you feel, and to bombard her with questions about herself. I felt the same way. Sounds like love to me, Dion, unrequited but not unreal.
Julie,
Here are you books. If you asked why I was returning them, I probably said something like, "I thought I'd had them long enough and thought you might like them back." The rest of the truth is that it allowed me to drop this on your doorstep, ring the bell, and walk away.
Don't be alarmed. This is no proclamation of undying love or anything even foggily resembling that--no greeting card singing "You Are My Sunshine." It's entirely self-serving. You don't even have to read it; I can pretend you did and be happy believing it. No need to respond, though I will ask questions, if a bit less intensely than at the coffee shop. I won't challenge your ideas or try to dissuade you from your feelings. Of course, I accept how you feel about me, but disengaging
myself from my attraction to you will take some doing. This was never an attraction of convenience, so it won't be conveniently put aside. Neither was it a creation of rationale, so it won't be reasoned away. Bottom line: You are as fascinating and as striking as ever.
I would like to apologize for embarrassing you--but I can't. I wanted to strike a spark, and the fire in your cheeks proved me successful. (You can't take that from me!) But nothing I have ever said to you, Julie, was flattery. Every word was how I felt (even about the bin-packing). It's hard to not try, however awkwardly, to express what I feel. I would like to promise that I won't ever again blow on you embers, but what the head decrees is of little import to the heart.
Did my proclamation in the coffee shop really take you by surprise? When you wondered to yourself why I asked you to meet me there, what did you surmise? What were you expectant of that day? Have you since reflected? Have you, in retrospection, seen "signs" of my attraction? Because all this time I thought I'd been Tom Sawyer--walking on my hands and punching the other boys--to your Becky Thatcher.
I concede defeat in the pursuit of your heart, but it is always with the stingiest reluctance that I back down from any challenge, and hope is the sharpest prod (and not a rational one, either). But I accept what I'm given and never take what's not offered. I want to know more about you than I have any right to ask or you any obligation to disclose. So, I'll take what satisfaction I can rationalize from having told you all this and continue from your doorstep, with maybe a glance now and then over my shoulder until you are out of sight.
(Signed)
P.S., You wondered aloud what I could possibly find fascinating about you. Well, I'll tell you.... But I said I'd shut up.
But I said what I wanted to say how I wanted to say it--three weeks and a couple dozen sheets of paper later. Sadly, some things don't even feel true any longer. How much does she really fascinate me now? How much hope do I really harbor? Do I honestly believe that her concealment has depths? That doubt could simply be bitterness, an artificial distancing. I am so tangle in my wants and needs that I don't know which is which anymore. The wants are emotional, the needs practical--or is it that easy? No, I can't find the separation there, either. Is it any wonder I'm confused? I've written a breakup letter to someone I never dated, for god's sake! Could that be a teensy bit more pathetic?
*****
I tried to rewrite the letter in cursive, but I couldn't write the first word without screwing it up--twice. More paper trashed. For what?
*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
I understand some of how you feel in your letter. It's so hard not to tell her how you feel, and to bombard her with questions about herself. I felt the same way. Sounds like love to me, Dion, unrequited but not unreal.
Along with World Peace, Financial Independence, and Some of My Hair Back (11/12/08 Wednesday)*
A couple hours of black anger followed the failure of the cursive draft. I feel aimless, cut adrift. I've begun to reclaim some of my former life, but it rings hollow, as hollow as, I guess, it really was before I thought I'd found something more meaningful. Now I go back to the reading; it's no longer fulfilling. So little seems necessary that boredom is preferable to most anything else I can think of. I seem to have missed all the seasons of the past half-year, and I'm rueing fall as it slides naked into winter, a match to my mood and outlook. I took a walk. I thought it made me feel better, then I step back inside, and the wet blanket smothers me.
I considered doing the online dating thing again. I wish I'd considered for longer before plunking down 120 bucks for eharmony. I was too flattered with the abundance of so-called matches and burdened with the desperation to find a woman who will talk to me and might actually show some interest in me to not make the three-month commitment. But there was only one match I felt at all interested in after all, so now not only do I feel poor, but stupid to boot. I thought about going back to Plenty of Fish, but I took a look at a page of matches there and saw too many of the same faces that were there when I quit from there. I thought, Well, at least the profile's something to write, but the motivation isn't there. I want Julie.
*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
Again, I totally get this...
I considered doing the online dating thing again. I wish I'd considered for longer before plunking down 120 bucks for eharmony. I was too flattered with the abundance of so-called matches and burdened with the desperation to find a woman who will talk to me and might actually show some interest in me to not make the three-month commitment. But there was only one match I felt at all interested in after all, so now not only do I feel poor, but stupid to boot. I thought about going back to Plenty of Fish, but I took a look at a page of matches there and saw too many of the same faces that were there when I quit from there. I thought, Well, at least the profile's something to write, but the motivation isn't there. I want Julie.
*Original Comment(s)
Lonesome Loser said...
Again, I totally get this...
Hey, Brother, Can You Spare a Clue? (11/13/08 Thursday)
I read and read--The History of Aythan Waring--but as the story compels me to continue, I see the end of the book looming but not the next book beyond. Another ending to dread. As I force myself to stop reading, I force myself to write. Will this simply be a compulsion from now on, or a balance of compulsions, a bouncing from one to another to stave off the ultimate realization of their separate and collective meaninglessness?
The bag of books sits in front of the front door so I can't forget it. My mind, as usual, races with scenarios, but I pay them little heed. It's not important how this happens, just that it does. I did slip one notecard--"How does the sun reach your garden behind those walls?"--into the last Brother Cadfael.
If I can hope, I can continue this. But what Hell that would be. If I never saw Julie again, I could dream and play "What If?" endlessly. After I return her books I can speculate as fancifully as I like that I've influenced her to a positive turn, that there may be an answer slipped into my locker, written without her usual care in the heat of a fevered revelation. For how long will I hope that? For how long will I live in this denial, torturing myself? For as long as I must see her at work, probably.
(I've brought both the book and the journal to work, but I don't feel like reading and am not sure I have anything to write. I'm not all that intent on eating, either. I'm at lunch, and the only other occupant of the breakroom is Julie. I've brought her books, but as it was pouring rain when I go here I left them in Stacey's car. I'll give them to her at her car at closing. We share a desk hour later; I'll tell Julie then about the books--to what end, I'm not sure, except to relieve some of my stress. Another five days off would be nice about now--right now.)
The bag of books sits in front of the front door so I can't forget it. My mind, as usual, races with scenarios, but I pay them little heed. It's not important how this happens, just that it does. I did slip one notecard--"How does the sun reach your garden behind those walls?"--into the last Brother Cadfael.
If I can hope, I can continue this. But what Hell that would be. If I never saw Julie again, I could dream and play "What If?" endlessly. After I return her books I can speculate as fancifully as I like that I've influenced her to a positive turn, that there may be an answer slipped into my locker, written without her usual care in the heat of a fevered revelation. For how long will I hope that? For how long will I live in this denial, torturing myself? For as long as I must see her at work, probably.
*****
(I've brought both the book and the journal to work, but I don't feel like reading and am not sure I have anything to write. I'm not all that intent on eating, either. I'm at lunch, and the only other occupant of the breakroom is Julie. I've brought her books, but as it was pouring rain when I go here I left them in Stacey's car. I'll give them to her at her car at closing. We share a desk hour later; I'll tell Julie then about the books--to what end, I'm not sure, except to relieve some of my stress. Another five days off would be nice about now--right now.)
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